Death and the Visiting Fireman

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘George Bitlis? Was that his real name?’ Daisy said. ‘When did all this change happen?’

  ‘He set up his nasty little club when he came over here from America,’ the major said. ‘It didn’t last very long. It didn’t need to. He’d made his money and could afford to become the respectable George Hamyadis.’

  ‘And you never found him?’ Daisy said.

  ‘He took good care to make it look as if he had left the country,’ said the major. ‘There didn’t seem to be anything I could do without creating a lot of stink to no purpose.’

  ‘I suppose all this is happening,’ Daisy said.

  ‘How did you commit the actual murder?’ Schlemberger said. ‘I knew all this stuff about the gambling club, but you still have me kind of foxed over the shooting.’

  ‘It was perfectly simple,’ said the major. ‘I took the pistol from his case where it was put for all to see. I hid it in the deep sleeve of my coat, and I fired when the boy did. Standing just here. Then I slipped the automatic into hiding in the coach. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Schlemberger. ‘It’s pretty plain. I guess I couldn’t have known it was you.’

  The major stood up.

  ‘Very well then,’ he said, ‘I thank you all for the pleasure of your company. I deeply regret any inconvenience I may have caused. Try to think well of me. Death was too good for that man. And now I doubt if we shall meet again.’

  He jumped all the way to the ground, stood for two seconds looking up at them, turned smartly on his heel, and walked away across the cobbles in the direction of the street.

  In the harsh sun a solitary figure.

  ‘One moment, major,’ Smithers called.

  A quick turn.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s one question still unanswered.’

  ‘If you must,’ the major said. ‘But I ought to be getting along to the police station. Tempus fugit. Though if I can I’ll answer. What’s your question?’

  ‘I’m unable to work out why you’ve told us this little fairytale,’ Smithers said.

  Eight

  ‘It certainly seemed like a fairy-tale,’ said Daisy.

  The major stood looking at them from the middle of the cobbled yard. Silent. The blue of the eyes no longer hard, suddenly washed out. In the strong sunlight every detail of his clothes stood out.

  The leather patches on the elbows of his brown check suit adrift here and there, the trousers ragged at the heel, a button missing from the left cuff, a slight stain at the bottom of the right lapel.

  ‘What do you mean, fairy-tale?’ he said.

  Without conviction.

  ‘Surely, it’s plain enough,’ said Smithers.

  ‘Of course it’s not plain to me,’ Daisy said. ‘I mean the major’s story did sound like a fairy-tale all the time, but I just don’t know why it should turn out to be one really. And when I do know that, there’s all the business of thinking out why we were told it and what we ought to be believing. Somebody please make something clearer.’

  Smithers turned to her.

  ‘Hamyadis told us while we were waiting for the liner to dock that he had grown his beard in America,’ he said. ‘There was no reason to conceal the truth then. Yet the whole point of the major’s story depends on the beard not being in existence when Hamyadis came to this country.’

  The major walked towards them, shoulders thrown back. Too far back.

  ‘I had to make the attempt,’ he said. ‘If one day, perhaps when I’m no longer in this world, some of you get to know the truth, you’ll see there was no other course open to a man of honour.’

  ‘Just one moment,’ Schlemberger said. ‘In my business you just get into the habit of not taking anything anyone says at its face value. Surely, if this man Hamyadis, or Bitlis, or whatever his name was, had grown a beard to disguise himself from people in this country who might recognize him as having run a gambling club, why, surely, then he had every reason to lie automatically about the exact date he commenced assuming this disguise.’

  ‘It was good of you’, said Smithers, ‘to let Major Mortenson have his say before you pointed out the rather obvious illogicality in my little supposition. Otherwise we would have had to endure even more confusion than we have got at present.’

  ‘I – er. That is…’ said Schlemberger. ‘You’re a smart man, Mr Smithers. A damn’ smart man.’

  ‘If the major didn’t do it,’ Kristen Kett said. ‘Why did he tell us he did? Nobody’s explained that yet. And I think we’ve a right to know.’

  ‘1 don’t really think we have, you know,’ Smithers said. ‘And in any case I think the major will disappoint you.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ said the major.

  ‘But you must say something,’ Wemyss said.

  The major turned on his heel and walked smartly into the inn. An unexpected cloud covered the sun and the courtyard was thrown into shadow. A switch turned off.

  ‘I’ve half a mind to follow the fellow and force an explanation out of him,’ said Wemyss.

  ‘Please, Richie,’ Kristen said. ‘No scenes. You know how rotten I feel. Anything like that only makes me worse.’

  ‘All right,’ Wemyss said. ‘But all the same he ought to tell us what he meant by it all.’

  ‘I guess it’s pretty plain to me,’ said Schlemberger. ‘The guy’s shielding somebody.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Smithers. ‘In strict logic it’s possible that his confession is simply a device to make people believe there is someone to shield.’

  ‘So we are still to go on suspecting each other,’ Fremitt said.

  He climbed wearily off the coach. The others followed. One by one without pretence of conversation they went into the inn or out through the archway into the town.

  Smithers fetched his Decline and Fall and settled down on the same bench in the courtyard. He read 183 pages from the account of Constantine’s jealousy for Julian to the summary of the reasons for the Gothic war of A.D. 366. The weather was less fine than it had been. Heavy clouds frequently obscured the sun. Towards the end of the afternoon they began to turn from white to grey.

  The shadows passing across the open pages caused Smithers to look up every now and again.

  At 2.48 p.m. he saw Joe Dagg come out of the inn door and walk across the courtyard and out into the street. He kept his hands in his pockets and failed to notice Smithers although he passed within six yards of him.

  At 3.14 he noticed Schlemberger and Daisy Miller pass by in the street outside. Schlemberger was talking energetically and Daisy Miller a little. Schlemberger appeared to be walking a bit too fast for her.

  At 3.59 Wemyss came to the door of the inn and stood for a moment. He examined his hands with great care and after looking at each finger in turn took out a nail file and scraped at the cuticle of his right thumb. He then re-entered the inn.

  At 4.03 John Fremitt came out accompanying Kristen Kett. They walked out into the town. Kristen did not notice Smithers, Fremitt put a hand to his hat when he noticed him, and hurried on. As they turned out of Smithers’s line of vision Kristen put a hand on Fremitt’s arm.

  At 4.32 Major Mortenson came in at the archway, saw Smithers, hesitated, and turned back into the street.

  At 4.35 a maid from the inn came out of the kitchen entrance carrying a chair and a basin full of fresh picked peas. She settled down in a corner near the coach house and began podding them. Smithers finished his paragraph, placed a marker in the book, and went indoors.

  Just before six from an upper window he saw the maid finish the big basin of peas and gather up her things. He walked downstairs. In the bar he found the whole coaching party sitting almost in silence with drinks. He joined them.

  At dinner he began discussions on the weather, on the fallibility of human memory, on public school life, on fire insurance, on the theatre. The latter lasted longest: eight minutes. Afterwards they all sat round a table in the bar again and at ten o’clock talk
ed about going to bed. They had nothing to say to each other. No one appeared to have the courage to leave the others. The evening was extremely sultry.

  As soon as the others had gone Smithers resumed his watch on the courtyard. By five minutes to midnight nothing had happened. The temperature seemed to be rising all the time. There were three distant rumbles of thunder.

  Smithers got up and hurried to Peter Dagg’s door.

  ‘Peter,’ he called quietly.

  The boy woke at once.

  ‘Is that you, sir? I’ll come now.’

  As they stepped out into the thick air of the courtyard there was a flash of lightning; by it the hands of the stable clock could be seen pointing to the hour.

  ‘I didn’t like to leave watching the coach,’ Smithers whispered to Peter as the clock chimed twelve silvery notes. ‘But I thought nothing would happen before midnight. I hope I won’t have to keep you out of bed till dawn, but I can’t do without my witness.’

  ‘Where are we going to hide?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Behind the same water butt as last night, I think,’ Smithers said. ‘Come on.’

  Thick clouds hid the moon and there was less need to creep round the sides of the inn yard. Smithers quickly led Peter across to their hiding place. Before they reached it they heard a sound. A tapping, steady and insistent, coming from the other side of a low range of buildings.

  ‘It’ll be round in the alley,’ Smithers whispered. ‘Follow me and don’t get ahead whatever you do.’

  He set off at a loping run across the cobbles, not daring to go too fast in case the sound of footsteps became audible in the alley.

  They reached the mouth of the narrow passage and peered in. Between the two rows of buildings it was pitch dark, but the sound of the tapping still came to them clearly.

  Then there was a tinkle of falling glass.

  ‘The window,’ whispered Peter.

  Distinctly in the dark they heard a muttered grunt of triumph.

  Suddenly from almost overhead there was a flash of intense lightning.

  For an instant the dark alley became a channel of light, mauvish, eerie. And in that instant the figure of John Fremitt was plainly visible.

  He was standing on a dustbin he had dragged across the alley and he had a hand through the broken window pane. But the sudden flash of light had made him glance round, and for the fraction of a second that the narrow passage was lit up he and Smithers stared straight at one another.

  Then blackness. And complete silence.

  There was a crash as the dustbin overturned and the sound of stumbling footsteps. Smithers plunged into the pit of darkness in front of him. Ahead he heard Fremitt, stumbling less now, but still not running very fast. Behind he could distinguish the patter of the boy’s feet. But in the muffling blackness none of them was making much speed.

  Smithers nerved himself and tried to run full out. For three paces reason prevailed over instinct. Then with a roaring crash he went full tilt into the dustbin where it had rolled into the middle of the alley.

  He lay still for an instant.

  Peter slowed and halted. He picked his way towards Smithers.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, only a little winded but I’m afraid we’ve lost our man … No we haven’t, though. Follow me.’

  Walking quickly and able now to make out more of his surroundings he led the boy back into the inn yard.

  ‘You remember what that alley does,’ he said. ‘It turns sharply and runs into a dead end. I expect you could climb out if you were chased. But, if you had time to look about, you would find that there’s a small gap between two buildings just in the corner of the inn yard. Over there. Now I don’t think our man will dare to come out the way we came in because he’ll think we’ll be waiting for him. But sooner or later he’ll spot this gap and come out there. We’ll wait.’

  ‘Sir, was it Mr Fremitt?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘But, sir, he doesn’t look as if he would have killed anybody.’

  ‘Who does, my boy? But, in any case, don’t forget two lots of people have tried to get to the coach, perhaps three, if it wasn’t Mr Fremitt we disturbed in the coach house the first time. They can’t all be murderers. Now, let’s watch quietly.’

  They stationed themselves near the slit between the two buildings and strained to catch any sound.

  The second flash of lightning startled them even more than the first. Peter gave a sharp yelp and Smithers dropped the torch he had taken from his pocket ready to surprise Fremitt. The flash was followed almost at once by a crack of thunder like an explosion. And it was raining.

  Steadily, dazingly, like a full-power shower-bath. Before Smithers had had time to speak he felt the cold of the rainwater touch his skin across the tops of his shoulders.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked Peter.

  He made no attempt to whisper. It was necessary almost to shout to be heard above the slapping of the heavy drops on the cobbles.

  ‘Yes, I’m okay. It was a bit of a shock. Did I scream?’ said the boy.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Smithers said. ‘Do you want to go in?’

  ‘Please, sir, no. I couldn’t think of anything not knowing what Mr Fremitt’s going to say.’

  ‘All right.’

  Smithers bent down and felt about for the torch. Already there were puddles on the ground. The rain had seeped into the torch before he got to it and it failed to work.

  As Smithers straightened up he heard the squelch of heavy footsteps on the other side of the buildings. Fremitt was making no attempt at concealment and could be heard even above the din of the storm. He gave a little ‘Ah’ as he found the gap and a moment later he stood in the inn yard, the rain beating on to his cap and cascading down to his shoulders.

  ‘Good evening, Fremitt,’ Smithers said.

  ‘Evening, Smithers, what beastly weather.’

  But a perceptible start. Something uncontrollable before the quick recovery. Before the will that had driven him to the top of his profession asserted itself.

  ‘No, it won’t do,’ said Smithers. ‘I saw you, you know. Just as clearly as you saw me.’

  Fremitt leant towards him. A fine stream of rainwater shot off the tip of his nose.

  ‘What did you say?’ he shouted. ‘This rain, you can’t hear yourself think.’

  Politely puzzled. Every feature of his face placarding it. The lift of the eyebrows, the faint frown, the tilt of the head, the parting of the lips.

  ‘It won’t do,’ said Smithers. ‘You’d make out what I’m saying if we were in the middle of an earthquake. It’s too important to you.’

  ‘I must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick somewhere,’ Fremitt said. ‘I’ve simply no idea what all this is about. But I can’t stand here in this downpour talking about it. For heaven’s sake, come indoors. I can’t think what you’re doing out.’

  ‘Mr Fremitt’s quite right about one thing, Peter,’ Smithers said. ‘We’d all three be better indoors.’

  Fremitt looked at the boy.

  ‘Hallo, Peter,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you in all this rain.’

  He turned and led them to the inn door. As soon as they got into the bare corridor, with the out-of-date calendar, he stopped and said:

  ‘I suppose you intend to ask me what I was doing at the back of the coach house just now. There was something of the policeman in your “good evening”.’

  The rainwater ran off him. A puddle grew on the boards at his feet.

  ‘You’d better take your jacket off, Peter,’ said Smithers. ‘Please,’ the boy said, ‘I’ve only got my pyjama top underneath.’

  ‘That’ll be all right,’ Smithers said with a smile. He turned to Fremitt.

  ‘When I’m not sure I’ve picked on the offender out of a class of twenty-five boys,’ he said, ‘dumb ignorance always confirms my guess.’

  ‘Only in this case there is no question of an offender,’ Fremitt s
aid. ‘You saw me just now in inexplicable circumstances. They are to remain unexplained.’

  ‘You’re right of course to remind me that this isn’t the class-room,’ said Smithers. ‘It is, after all, a question of murder.’

  ‘And you do well to remind me of that,’ Fremitt said. ‘It’s dangerous for anyone to indulge in suspicious behaviour in our circumstances. Would you care to tell me what you were doing prowling about after dark in a storm of rain?’

  ‘Shall we say seeking to confirm a hypothesis?’ Smithers said. ‘Seeking successfully.’

  ‘The phrase could cover almost any set of circumstances. It’s no explanation. But if you’re not going to say anything, I can do nothing to make you.’

  ‘Though other things being equal,’ Smithers said, ‘such an explanation when used about a walk in the dark looks better than when it is used of breaking a window.’

  ‘That would depend on the circumstances in which the question was asked. A reply of that sort is hardly likely to impress a hostile policeman,’ Fremitt said. ‘My dear chap, you’re too old to want advice, but I should consider your position very carefully. Inspector Parker asked me questions about you this afternoon which to my mind could mean only one thing. I am probably betraying a confidence in telling you that, but I feel sure you must have some explanation. Make up your mind to it. Let the inspector know everything, or there will be some hideous mistake.’

  He turned and walked away along the corridor leaving a trail of drips.

  ‘No,’ said Smithers as he went, ‘it won’t do all the same. I apply your own words to yourself. Let the inspector know everything. Otherwise I shall.’

  Fremitt turned the corner as the words were spoken.

  ‘Now,’ said Smithers. ‘Upstairs quickly with you, my boy, and a hot bath before you get back to bed.’

  At breakfast next morning once more nine people sat round a table. Eight murder suspects and a boy.

  There was once again little conversation. After the waiter had taken away the bacon plates the major slapped together the copy of The Times which had shut him out of the scanty talk and said:

  ‘So another day begins, dies irae, another day of pointless suspicions and uneasiness. I expect we shall most of us have the pleasure of a conversation with Inspector Parker. He tells me he delights in the name of Nosey Parker. And it’s a good name for him. But not for the reason he thinks. It’s a good name for him and all his tribe of Government snoopers. You know what this business means to him?’