“I’ll remember, doctor, thanks. Good morning.”
“Good morning….”
Tordopp looked surprised at the farewell. Was he being hustled out?
He was. For coming up the drive Littlejohn had spotted a taxi bringing Cromwell from his expeditions. It would never do for the doctor to know what was going on behind his back.
From where he was lying Littlejohn could see the foreshortened dark-clad form of his assistant climbing out of the vehicle. He watched him pay the driver in two instalments. First the fare; then the tip. The attitude of the taximan showed the latter mustn’t have been much.
Before he could enter the hotel, however, Cromwell was hailed and pounced upon by another black figure. It was the priest, Father O’Shaughnessy, looking like a large cockroach from so far away.
Littlejohn could see the priest telling a long tale to Cromwell who looked ready to bolt at first and then froze to attention. Both parties gesticulated and pointed with their free hands. In the others they held their hats and the priest busily fanned himself with his own. He must have been running hard by the look of things.
Cromwell spoke vigorously to the clergyman, pointed to the hotel, called back the taxi and was driven off in the reverse direction.
There was a hasty tap on the bedroom door shortly afterwards and Mrs. Littlejohn opened it.
Father O’Shaughnessy, red-faced and panting, stood on the mat. He had recovered some of his smooth urbanity on the way up.
“I really ought to have called earlier to see you, Inspector. But I didn’t know till this morning what had happened. I’m very sorry.”
His blue eyes glowed with excitement behind his gold-framed glasses and his fat little hands twitched like fishes dying out of water. His neck was the same width as his head and bulged from his exertions like an inflated rubber tube.
“That’s all right, father. But it seems you have other things to tell me, judging from what I’ve just seen from the window.”
“You were watching us, were you? I was just reporting to your colleague that I’ve come from a walk across the golf-links and there found the body of Harry Keast. He’s been murdered….”
“Good God!”
Mrs. Littlejohn clicked her tongue against her teeth. Such language in front of a priest!
“Yes. I told Mr. Cromwell and he’s gone to the police station for Superintendent Bowater. He asked me to telephone them as well, then they could arrange for the doctor and ambulance. Then I was to tell you what has happened and that Mr. Cromwell would be back as soon as possible.”
“Where did you find the body, father?”
“Near Bolter’s Hole. I was passing there with Mr. Shearwater when it happened. There weren’t any players actually on the hole, but the last pair had been there about a quarter of an hour before. They saw poor Keast there brushing the fairway. He’s been helping the green-keepers lately….”
“You soon found that out.”
“Well, you see, I passed those who’d last seen him, finishing their game as I ran for help, leaving Shearwater on guard behind. They were astonished….”
“They hadn’t seen anybody about?”
“No. I believe you were shot by a .44 rifle. So was Keast. Only the murderer took better aim than in your case. Poor Keast got it between the eyes. He was what you might call a sitting target. Probably leaning, as I’ve often seen him, resting on his besom.”
“Did anyone hear the report?”
“Yes, I did. I saw Keast fall, too. I also judged where the shot had been fired from…. The other side of Bolter’s Hole among the rocks at the edge….”
What a man Father O’Shaughnessy was for springing a climax!
“… I ran round before I came away and found this….”
The priest thereupon opened a spotless white handkerchief and threw from it into Littlejohn’s lap a spent .44 cartridge.
“But there wasn’t a soul in sight. Our man had evidently scrambled down the rocks and off hot-foot. I haven’t handled the cartridge and I told Shearwater distinctly to see that nobody went near where I found it. And now I must be off and see what else I can do to help. I hope you’ll soon be about again, Inspector….”
And with that, the amazing little man bade them both good day, bowed himself out and toddled off.
They had installed a telephone in Littlejohn’s room at his own request and a furious ringing heralded Cromwell on the other end.
“Did you get the priest’s message, sir?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Telephoning from the golf clubhouse. They’re just bringing along the body. Sorry I had to run away….”
“That’s all right. Anything interesting after all your enquiries?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I rang up about. I’ll be right along and tell you, because it’s hot. You know that chap Rupert Creer, the one who gave a village girl a baby almost on the eve of his wedding and became a sort of remittance man in South Africa … ?”
“Yes. What about him?”
“He’s back in England, changed his name and living … guess where?”
“Come on. This isn’t a quizz programme….”
“Right in this town. I’ll tell you how I traced it when I see you.”
“What’s he call himself?”
“Shearwater….”
“My God! That’s the chap the priest left minding the body!”
Littlejohn flung the travelling rug from his knees.
“Pass me that walking-stick, Letty….”
Mrs. Littlejohn threw down her knitting in dismay.
“Whatever for …? Remember what Dr. Tordopp …”
“Damn Tordopp! I’m getting up. I’m sorry to be rude, Letty, but really….”
Mrs. Littlejohn passed him the stick with a smile.
He only reached the bedroom door and then had to give it up and sit down.
But his wife didn’t say I told you so….
CHAPTER XII
COUNTRY RAMBLE
CROMWELL began the day by a council of war with Prickwillow. They held it at the gate of the cottage hospital and their air of earnest preoccupation caused somewhat of a stir in a village where nothing much out of the ordinary ever seemed to happen.
Women peeped round the curtains at them and the more curious ones passed and repassed the absorbed couple on fantastic and fabulous errands in the hope of overhearing something as they went by.
“The bank’ll just have opened, sir, if that’s where you want to call first,” said Prickwillow. “Topham, the clerk-in-charge, will probably help you willingly….”
“Topham?” muttered Cromwell consulting his black notebook. “The vicar told Inspector Littlejohn it was Tiplady….”
“Uh, uh, uh. A little way the vicar has of mixin’ up names. Take it from me, it’s Topham, sir.”
“Right. I’ll call there right away. Now, Prickwillow, I’d like you to go round to Cranage Farm and try to find out where they all were when somebody took a shot at the Inspector. Get to know if they have a .44 rifle, as well, if you can.”
“Very good, sir, I’ll do my best. As far as I know, there’s no rifle. Shot guns, yes. Rifles, no.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well … I get around. And during the war we ’ad details of all shot guns and rifles in this area. L.D.V. and Home Guard, you know.”
“Yes. But they might have bought one since.”
“Maybe. But they must have kept it very dark….”
“Where would they get one, if they wanted one?”
“At Greyle, sir. That’s the nearest big town with a gunsmith’s shop. But why should they buy one? They didn’t know all this was goin’ to happen. They didn’t know Inspector Littlejohn was coming. They didn’t know they’d be takin’ a pot-shot at ’im, even granted they did it. I don’t think …”
That seemed reasonable enough and well argued.
“Anyhow, see what you can find out, constable.”
&
nbsp; They strolled towards the bank. A sub-branch of the London and South Counties established in what looked like a small disused Village Hall.
“This foundation stone was laid by
Sir Hector H. L. Creer, D.L., J.P.
Sept. 26th, 1888.”
“That reminds me,” said Cromwell. “Do the Creers still live in these parts?”
“No, sir. Family impoverished by death duties and the main line died out. Mrs. Macintosh had another sister who died and, of course, Mr. Rupert went away. They sold the place to a man called Pybus, a new-rich. Pybus’s Potato Crackles…. You’ll have heard of them….”
“Never had the pleasure. So it’s no use looking into that side of the case.”
“No, sir. Mr. Pybus ’ud be delighted to show you round the ’all. Collects pictures and antiques. Quite a museum. But what good would that do? Wastin’ time, wouldn’t it?”
“You’ve said it. Well, let’s be getting on then. You to Cranage, Prickwillow. Me to the bank. I’ll ’phone you when I get back, because if there’s time, I might go to Greyle.”
“’Bus leaves every two hours. Takes just over half an hour there. If you was to catch the twelve o’clock, you could get a bit o’ something to eat in Greyle. You’ll not find much here…. Then perhaps come back on the four o’clock.”
“Right. I’ll see about it, then. Now … let’s get crackin’.”
They parted and some of the idlers of the village looked ready to follow them, but decided against it and, sitting on a seat in the centre under a large tree, began to spin their own theories about the shooting and who had done it.
The bank was a small, low-ceilinged room, simply furnished. A counter, a screen separating the clerks’ desk from the banking part, a cubby-hole for private consultations. The clerk-in-charge was sitting behind the screen drinking a cup of tea and his companion, a guard, was dusting the place. There wasn’t enough work even for one man and the guard was there to see that nobody ran away with the clerk or the cash.
The public side of the screen was covered with posters, like a hoarding. Buy Savings Certificates. Open a Savings Account; Deposits from £1 upwards. Bankers’ Notice to the Public. Collection of Cheques. Are You Keeping the Roads Safe? Foreign Business Transacted. Boatmen’s National Bank of New York; Travellers’ Cheques Accepted; Sont acceptés ici.
Cromwell liked the little bit of French.
“Yes, sir?”
Mr. Topham looked cautiously at Cromwell and his foot drew a little nearer the stud under the counter which operated the alarm-bell hanging on the wall outside. Not that the bell did much good. Last time he trod on the button by mistake the yokels had looked up and said, “Tryin’ out the ’larum,” and gone on with their smoking.
All the same, you never know.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Topham? The vicar sent me to see you.”
Cromwell thought that would put Topham at his ease, but it didn’t. The vicar was always sending somebody strange. On the strength of ‘Foreign Business Transacted’ he’d once sent a Latvian refugee who couldn’t speak English and they’d had an awful job getting rid of him. And then last week, he’d introduced an insurance tout, who stayed trying to convince Topham that he might drop dead any minute and leave a suffering wife and family, when all the time Topham wasn’t married. Talked about wise and foolish virgins and having one’s can full of oil in emergencies….
Mr. Topham looked apprehensive. He looked more so when Cromwell handed over his card.
“I believe, Mr. Topham, your bank has something to do with making remittances to a Mr. Rupert Creer in South Africa. Could you tell me if he’s still out there?”
“I’ll have to consult central office,” he said. “Wilkins, get me Greyle, will you, please?”
In all matters except paying and receiving cash in the ordinary course of business, Mr. Topham had to consult. He consulted the authorities at Greyle on banking, his domineering mother on affairs of heart, three stockbrokers about his surplus income, and, in secret, Old Moore’s Almanac about the future.
“They’re on,” said Wilkins laconically.
Mr. Topham shut himself in a telephone box and Cromwell could see him anxiously putting his case to higher authority. A tall, lean man of about forty, grey haired, face lined with worry, long nervous hands, thin, scraggy neck and big nose. He hadn’t got on in the bank because before he’d even reached the entrance age, his mother had sapped him of all initiative and will of his own. In the bank he was a cipher. But life has compensations. On the links he was a giant. Handicap : Plus One. Topham didn’t know how he did it. He must have been born so. He won the bank golf cup every year and all the directors and all the directors’ men couldn’t stop him.
Mr. Topham emerged from his glass case.
“Yes,” he said, returning to the counter. “Our trustee department still make payments for the account of Mr. Creer. They pay them over to the branch of the South African bank in London….”
“Thank you. Anything more?”
“I thought that was all you wanted to know….”
“I’m anxious to find out as much about Mr. Creer as I can. Will I have to go over to Greyle to get fuller details … ?”
“I’m afraid you will. Although the accounts of the Creer family are connected with this little office, all the business is done by the trustee department in Greyle. The family died out or such as was left of it removed from the locality….”
“I see. Any use my telephoning your people in Greyle? I’ll show you my warrant-card here to put things right and you can tell your people it’s O.K. to give me information. Right?”
“I’ll consult … Get Greyle again, will you, Wilkins, please?”
The guard, who looked like an ex-pug., rose obediently like one in a dream and heavily entered the telephone cabin.
“They’re on …”
Topham told his tale again, listened carefully to what someone said and then passed the receiver to Cromwell.
“Trustee Department, Greyle. Are you a police officer?”
“Yes. I’m wondering if you’d be so good as to give me a bit of information about Mr. Rupert Creer….”
The voice assumed an officious quack.
“We’re not allowed to disclose anything confidential, you know. You’ll have to bring a court order….”
“I guess this won’t be confidential. All I want to know is, do you still make remittances to South Africa for Mr. Rupert Creer?”
“Yes, we do. Why?”
“I’m trying to trace him. He’s the late Bishop of Greyle’s brother-in-law, you know….”
“I’m aware of that.”
The voice wasn’t going to allow outsiders to teach it anything about the hierarchy of Greyle. No, sir.
“Can you help me then, sir?”
“I have already told you, we still make the payments…”
The voice was rich and arrogant, with a mellow fruity note, like a trombone played with a hat on the end of it. Cromwell imagined its owner to be small, plump, well-fed, and a bit pickled in port or brandy…. Actually, the man was tall, thin and a rabid teetotaller, but that has nothing to do with the case….
“…. You make the payments to a London bank, sir. Have you Mr. Creer’s address … ?”
“I don’t think …”
“Look here, sir. Are you or aren’t you going to cooperate? Are you the manager?”
“No … I’m chief clerk….”
“Put me on to the manager, please….”
“I … I … Very well….”
Another pause and then a different voice. This time calm and clerical, with a faint touch of sedate jocularity.
“Queasey here…. What can I do for you?”
“You the manager, sir?”
“Yes….”
Mr. Queasey was a model of tact and sound judgment. As head of what was known internally as “Stiffs Department,”Mr. Queasey had, in the course of his duties, to circulate among the bereav
ed of Greyle. And to circulate among the bereaved of Greyle was itself a feat. Clerical bigwigs, ecclesiastical trusts, sacerdotal hangers-on and snobs all pressed upon him with queer claims and importunities which would not be denied.
“Oh yes. We still make the remittance for Mr. Rupert Creer. Funds left in trust for him by his family…. No. Don’t know the fellah’s address now. London Bank deal with that. Eh? Oh yes. Pioneers Bank of South Africa, Threadneedle Street…. Want to know something from them? Yes…. Oh, that’s quite all right. Always ready to further interests of justice. As a matter of fact, I’ll telephone ’em if you like. Won’t take above five minutes. Right. Ring you back….”
Cromwell returned to the counter and Mr. Topham tried to entertain him in conversation whilst Mr. Queasey telephoned to the South African bank in London.
“Play golf, sergeant?”
“No, can’t say I do. Busy … too busy for games. Play a bit of clock-golf when I take my holidays….”
Mr. Topham shut-up about golf. He tried detective stories.
“You chaps must have some exciting adventures. I read a lot of thrillers. Not much to do here. It passes the time….”
“I guess it does….”
“Yes. But facts are stranger than fiction, aren’t they? I’ll bet you Scotland Yard fellows could tell some tales if they’d only let you….”
“Oh,” said Cromwell modestly…. When he tries to look modest his face is a picture…. “Oh, I don’t know. A bit humdrum and routine, you know. You get used to it.”
“What do you think about a lot of these thrillers, sergeant?”
“Weeeell … Thing that strikes me is there’s more money in imagining crimes than in actually solving ’em on the spot. And what makes me laugh is the number of detectives there are. All big shots at Scotland Yard. Hundreds of ’em. Why, we’d need Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament and half the buildings in London to house them….”
“Still, that’s beside the point, really, isn’t it? What I mean is, your cases for example, would …”
The telephone rang. Cromwell was relieved.
The Case of the Famished Parson (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 9