“Kneeshaw! The local simpleton. Murders, ghosts, parachutists during the war, Loch Ness monsters in the park lake...it’s always Willy Kneeshaw who sees them! If you want to set a rumour flying round the town to suit your own purposes, you say Willie saw or did something, and it’s off. However, I got that much from Trumper myself. I intend seeing Willie as soon as our wholesale murderer will give me a minute or two to spare. Now it’s Arthur Kent...”
“I’m going to see Kneeshaw myself as soon as he gets back from delivering the groceries. Meanwhile, could you help me trace a telephone call, sir?”
Cromwell told Simpole about Trumper’s haste to telephone from an outside instrument after his interview with him.
“H’m...Could it be that somebody has put Trumper up to spreading the rumour with a view to implicating Mrs. Crake?”
“You mean, somebody who intended killing her all the time, so he spread the tale around to turn people’s eyes to one of the family, out for revenge on her for Mr. Crake’s death?”
“You read my thoughts like a book, Sergeant. That’s it.”
As he talked with Simpole, Cromwell noticed that he was furtively trying to conceal an object lying on his desk by shuffling it in a pile of letters. It was a large magnifying glass. He wondered what the Superintendent had been up to and why he wanted to hide it. Had he been snooping round like Sherlock Holmes with the glass, or what...?
The telephone bell rang and Simpole answered it.
“Lucky that owing to the war, this place isn’t yet on the automatic telephone. The call from the first box in the post office at eleven-ten was to Trotman, the lawyer. You’ve so scared Trumper that he’s been taking legal opinion and asking friend Trotman for guidance!”
Simpole cackled mirthlessly. Cromwell sensed in the laugh how much on edge the Superintendent really was.
“Well...And are you and the Inspector any nearer a solution of the murders?”
“No, sir. It might be anybody. Mrs. Kent has no alibi for Mrs. Crake’s murder; nor for her husband’s really...”
“Yes, she has. I followed the pair of them out to Beyle. I intended seeing old Bernard, but finding them just ahead of me, I travelled slowly to make sure they weren’t bound there, too. They were. I saw Mrs. Kent drop her husband at the gate and drive off. I followed her part of the way, as I’d another call to make. Thought I’d let Kent get his business done at the house and then return after. When I got back, I found my men in and Kent dead on the mat! I’ve already told Littlejohn.”
“As for Alec,” added Cromwell after a pause to digest the strange news, “he seems to have alibis in one bar or another all over the place.”
“Not exactly. Only at his favourite one, the airport. And there, I doubt if I’d take their statements for gospel. They’d damn their immortal souls for a glass of whisky, and all hang together. What about Nita?”
“No watertight alibi in either case. Uncle Bernard has none in the case of his sister, but Inspector Littlejohn and I were with him when Kent was killed.”
“You’ll have a job sorting that lot out and I wish you luck. I’m working independently on a line or two myself. I’ve a lot of local knowledge to draw on, you know.”
“Have you any theories, sir?”
“Plenty. I’ll tell you quite candidly, I’m out to show the Chief Constable I can solve this case myself...”
Simpole cast a queer sarcastic look at Cromwell.
“I thought if we co-operated...”
“We’ll do that when I’ve found the culprit. I have my pride, you know. I’ve done the dirty work of this district for fifteen years and now, when a real sensation and a chance to show my metal comes along, the Chief calls in an outside force. It’s not good enough. I’m not blaming you, Sergeant. You’ve to do as you’re told, just the same as I have. But I’m not having you or anybody else picking my brains and getting the credit...”
“I’m sorry you’re taking it that way. Inspector Littlejohn will be...”
“I’ve told him the same thing.”
Cromwell remembered the Chief Constable’s reason for calling in The Yard over Simpole’s head. He’d been in love with Dulcie Crake himself! There was nothing more to be said.
“Well, sir, I’ll not take up your time. I’ll just sit here and read my notes till the Inspector calls, so you can get on with your work.”
“I’d rather you waited in the room next door, if you don’t mind. I can’t concentrate with anybody else at my elbow.”
Cromwell stiffened huffily.
“Very well, sir. I’ll go there...Good morning...”
“Be seeing you later...”
The sergeant made his way to the waiting-room next door. Then he discovered he’d left his bowler hat behind. Hastily he returned, tapped on the door marked “Superintendent Simpole”, and entered. Simpole was again examining a document through his large magnifying glass. He hastily thrust both in his drawer and turned on Cromwell with momentary anger in his eyes.
“Well...? What now?”
“My hat, sir...I forgot it.”
Cromwell hastily collected his property and left the room, aware that Simpole was looking strangely ashamed about something.
“What about a cup o’ tea” said the large sergeant, who just happened to be passing.” It’s long past my elevenses and I’m as dry as a bone.”
“I don’t mind if I do, thanks.”
“You look a bit put-out,” said the sergeant over the steaming cups of what turned out to be coffee. “’As the Super been havin’ a go at you, too?”
“Not exactly. But between you and me, Sergeant, his manners might be improved.”
“You’re right there. He’s given me a ’ell of a time this mornin’ so far. The last month or so, he’s been absolutely unbearable. I’m thinkin’ of askin’ for a transfer or else chuckin’ up and keepin’ a pub, if things go on like this. I can’t stand much more.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
The sergeant passed a huge hand across his brow.
“Ask me another. He’s like one who’s been crossed in love. He’s a bachelor, you know. Lived with his mother till she died two years ago and now he’s very comfortable in nice cosy digs, kept by a maiden lady — a real lady. But it’s not the life for a man, you know. Look at me. Five children, all grown up now, but as ’appy as the day is long if only Simpole will let me be...”
He looked ready to break down and howl.
“Once we all got on fine together. Now he won’t have anybody in his room while he’s workin’. Seems to want to be all alone as much as he can. Time was when him and me would sit there comparin’ notes for hours. Now...well...I’m not wanted. If my work was going off, I wouldn’t mind, but it isn’t...I say that without boasting, Sergeant...”
He took a large gulp of hot coffee in his emotion and became convulsed.
“God! That’s ’ot. And they always bring me coffee when I want tea. What’s the matter with everybody? ’Ave they all gone mad? Or is it me?”
He turned his blue childish eyes in dumb appeal to Cromwell.
“Do you ever see him using a magnifying glass on papers?”
“So you’ve seen it, too! You’re a sharp ’un, you know. Proper Scotland Yard sleuth’ound...”
He gave Cromwell an admiring look.
“Yes. That’s another thing. That magnifying glass. I think he thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes, you know. Candidly...”
The sergeant solemnly pulled himself together to impart a profound truth.
“Candidly, I think the Super’s goin’ off his chump. Work and worry’s gettin’ him down. He ought to find himself a good wife to take his mind off things...”
And with this sage prescription for his chief’s complaint, the sergeant-in-charge rose, wiped his ginger moustache on the back of his hand, and gathered the two cups on his big fist.
“I must be off, else I’ll be fallin’ foul of him again. So long, sir. Be seein’ you again, I ’ope...”
/>
That night, Superintendent Simpole hanged himself in his own office, thereby confirming the sergeant’s views and giving the town something more exciting to talk about.
Nine – Mr Trotman Condescends
TROTMAN & Co. occupied the best suite of offices in Bright’s Buildings. Outside the front door, which opened on a large square with grass and old trees in the centre of it, stood a sumptuous car; Littlejohn had a bet with himself that it belonged to Mr. Trotman. It added the final touch to the sensualist lawyer, with his Savile Row clothes, his exquisite linen, his white well-tended hands and his fastidious manners. His name was on the appropriate door-plate of the office.
TROTMAN & CO.
Solicitors & Commissioners for Oaths.
L. TROTMAN, M.A.
A. J. KENT, LL.B.
J. SKRIKE.
Mr. Skrike, whoever he might be, brought to your mind a half-naked poor relation, with his absence of degrees and his plebeian name. He did most of the work.
Littlejohn paused before a large oak door, marked Mr. Trotman. Next door there was one, Mr. Kent. Both said peremptorily, Private, so the Inspector entered the General Office, the door of which bade you Come In. Mr. Skrike, in a glass-partioned cubby-hole, was busy conveyancing, a girl was brewing tea, and a small office boy with red hair was sticking labels on old envelopes with a view to their use again for humble clients. Mr. Trotman was keen on economy for everybody but himself.
“Yes, Chief Inspector Littlejohn,” said the boy. “I’ll ask him right away, sir.” He rummaged in a drawer which presumably held his own property and brought out an album.
“Could you please give me your autograph, sir?” he asked.
Littlejohn’s photograph had been in the Tilsey Magnet that very morning and this was the price of fame. He signed the book.
“And would you please put ‘Scotland Yard’ as well, Chief Inspector?”
“Just plain ‘Inspector’, sonny,” said Littlejohn and did as he was bidden. The boy thereat ran all the way to Mr. Trotman’s room, where, in view of his recent contact with one of his personal heroes, he treated his boss with less respect than usual.
“Send him in,” boomed Mr. Trotman. “And say ‘sir’ when you address me, boy.”
“O. K.,” replied the boy and on the way back, wondered to himself if he could wring another autograph from Littlejohn and sell it to other admirers.
Mr. Trotman rose as the Inspector entered, but instead of offering his hand, he gave a little bow and bade Littlejohn be seated. The room was large and airy; the furniture sumptuous and comfortable, especially Mr. Trotman’s working-chair, padded in soft leather, slung on springs and swivels. His desk was of choice mahogany, a period piece. The walls were half covered in calf-bound volumes; the rest held very nice etchings. Over the fireplace hung a large oil-painting of an obvious and very venerable Trotman in whiskers and high collar.
Mr. Lancelot Trotman looked like a very well-bred fish. Small head with pale blue cod’s eyes; a perfect sweep of chest and belly, which seemed to curve right to his feet; and as he walked his legs moved from the knees only in a paddling motion, like swimming in air. The short fin-like arms, the white flapping hands, and sensual lips which had a half-drinking expression permanently upon them, the straight nose. It was as if a magician had taken a large carp from a pond, blessed it, and sent it to Savile Row with orders to get dressed and become a man.
“Ha, Inspector. I wish you could have put off this visit until another day. I am naturally distressed by the violent death of my partner, and very occupied. Is it urgent?”
The voice was deep and unctuous. There was little evidence about the place of its owner’s being busy, but he was obviously on his guard about something from the start.
Littlejohn felt a bit nettled.
“I won’t keep you long, sir. And all my business here is urgent. With two people murdered in as many days, it’s bound to be urgent. We don’t want a third victim on our hands.”
“Of course not...What do you want of me?”
“You are the Crake family lawyer, I gather, sir. Mr. Bernard Doane tells me Mr. Crake left the bulk of his money, except the house, to his wife and that she in turn, left her share to her son. Miss Nita gets Beyle House. Is that so?”
Mr. Trotman had risen with an expression of horror on his face. His eyes opened very wide, revealing bloodshot whites behind the blue. He loomed over Littlejohn, for he was quite as tall as the Inspector and considerably heavier, most of it flabby flesh.
“How dare he? How dare he? I say. That information was confidential and only told to him in confidence by my late client, Mrs. Crake. It’s outrageous of him to talk about it all over the town.”
“He hasn’t talked all over the town. He’s told me at my pressing request.”
“I’m surprised at you, Inspector. You should have come to me.”
“Suppose we leave that side of the argument, sir. Was my information correct?”
“Substantially, yes. Substantially...”
When he mouthed a good word, he repeated it, like a diner coming back for a second helping.
“Miss Nita was being saddled with a liability in being left Beyle, wasn’t she? Even her father’s money didn’t go to her on Mrs. Crake’s death; it went to Alec.”
“That is right. Miss Crake is not the residuary legatee...residuary legateeeee.” He mouthed it again with relish. His bright white dentures flashed as he spoke and he passed his hand nervously over his well-groomed head.
“But I don’t see how this affects your case, Inspector.”
“We have to establish motive, sir. By the death of his mother young Mr. Crake inherits about ten thousand pounds. Miss Nita inherits a tumbledown house. There’s quite a difference.”
“You are not suggesting that Alec killed his own mother. That is preposterous.”
“No, sir. He seems to have had alibis of sorts given by his drinking companions at the airport bar.”
“A wastrel, sir...wasting his substance in riotous living...riotous living, I say.”
“How came he to become so degraded. He’s barely in his twenties. And with such a father, too.”
“He was his mother’s constant companion. I’m afraid the company he met was not very edifying...not edifying, I say. His mother was a very fine-looking woman. Culchahed, too. I say, culchahed...But she sought the company of artists, bohemians, loose-living people...Fond of the picturesque and unusual...the picturesque and unusual. It might have suited her, but it didn’t suit the boy. He was taking alcohol out of bravado at a very early age, much to his mother’s amusement.”
“But did his father tolerate it?”
Mr. Trotman lolled back in his opulent chair and waved his white hands about on the ends of his short arms.
“My dear Inspector. Have you realized what it means for a public man to resist the wishes of a wilful and strong-minded wife, I say, wilful and strong-minded...She prefers a certain course of reckless conduct. He may forbid it, but can he stop it? If so, pray tell me in what way. Can, he shut her up in a room and turn the key? Can he incarcerate her...? I say, incarcerate...Or can he beat her to enforce obedience? Can he, a judge, take her to court? Can he sue for judicial separation and cause a scandal and odium on his good name? I say, ooohdium. He was a great churchman, orthodox church, although his wife was a Roman Catholic. He felt very keenly the duties of a husband. The same applied to the boy. He couldn’t be always watching him. He had his work to do. He sent him away to school, but his mother brought him back and found a tutor locally...one who would let the lad free when it suited Mrs. Crake to have his company...Oh, no, my dear sir. Oh, no. It wasn’t as easy as that. The result was, Alec became an idle and dissolute wastrel at a very early age. An idle, dissolute wastrel...”
Suddenly another look of horror came into Mr. Trotman’s eyes. Littlejohn followed their direction and saw outside a fellow with the bullet head and stiff hair of a simpleton leaning on the sumptuous car at the door, lighting
a clay pipe. This done, he lolled a little more on the bright bonnet, as though deriving great satisfaction from the act, and then moved to the shining radiator, the top of which he breathed upon and began to polish with his coat-sleeve.
The red-cheeked diminutive junior clerk arrived in response to Mr. Trotman’s wild signalling on the bell.
“Tell Kneeshaw to get away from my car. That’s the second day in succession...I say, in succession. I don’t want it breathing upon and I don’t want the bonnet polishing. Tell him so at once and tell him, if he values his job, to keep away from it.”
“Very good.”
“And call me ‘sir’ when you address me. You may go.”
Mr. Trotman turned his purple face to Littlejohn.
“The impudence of the present generation...I feel appalled...I am upset. The death of my partner...your questioning which is far from pleasant for me, and now this...I feel very upset, I say.”
Littlejohn didn’t know what he was expected to say to that, but saw the perky junior sending the man called Kneeshaw about his business. They seemed on very good terms and the lad was showing the simpleton his autograph album by way of impressing him.
Mr. Trotman beat impatiently on the window with his signet ring and flapped a white hand. Thereupon the party broke up after Kneeshaw had imposed a final polish on the radiator of the car.
“Where were we?”
Mr. Trotman oozed back in his padded chair.
“You knew the Crake family very well, sir?”
“Of course I did. I went to school with Crake. We’re both natives of this town and were very good friends. That’s why I am so upset.”
Mr. Trotman was contemptuous and sorry for himself at the same time. His petulance made him nervy and jerky. He kept twiddling his fingers and pulling his copious and sensual nether lip.
“What about Mr. Bernard Doane? He’s lived with them quite a long time...”
“As far as I recollect, he came for a holiday with them soon after their marriage and stayed on. Imposed himself upon them...imposed, I say. I would not have stood it, but Crake was a strange mixture. A strong man on the bench, but in private life, anybody’s fool. Too charitable. I’d have sent the fellow packing...”
Crime In Leper's Hollow Page 11