Littlejohn sat down and thumbed the book. It was almost full and already the new year’s issue, a replica of the one they were examining, was in the drawer, with a few entries already scribbled in it. The word “Salary” towards the end of each month told its own tale and notes like “Police Sports”, “Children’s Treat”, “Police Conference”, and “Old folks”, at Christmas, showed that Simpole had at least been getting ready for the New Year and not contemplating taking his life before it came in.
“Do you know when these were issued, sir?”
“Yes; I got mine last week. The constable had a stack of them. I got mine first.”
“So between last week and now, Simpole has decided to end it. He evidently expected to be functioning well into the New Year, judging from the way he’s anticipated events by transferring them from the old diary to the new.”
There was nothing much to guide them in the rest of the new book. The old one was a more difficult problem. Every day held some entry or other, often a complete page of them, entered in Simpole’s precise, sprawling hand.
“I’d better take and go through this, sir, if you don’t mind. It may give us a lead...”
“By all means...”
As they finished the tea, Littlejohn turned over the last few pages of the diary.
“There we are, sir...”
He showed Morphy several entries.
N. Crake died.
Doctor...Coroner...Trumper...Beyle.
“Those must be the appointments he made arising out of Nicholas Crake’s death. He told me he was investigating a rumour that Mrs. Crake caused her husband’s death...That’ll be it.”
“Very likely, sir. Look there...”
Just a pathetic scribble in pencil.
D.C. Murdered. Beyle.
Scotland Yard called in.
“That must have been a very bitter day for Simpole, Littlejohn.”
Then: A. Kent, murdered. Beyle.
And finally, a few brief notes on Simpole’s last working day, again pencil scrawls, as though he hadn’t time or inclination to continue his usual neat entries in ink.
Shotter: South Counties...10.30.
Sharp, Phillips...11.30.
Mansion House 05433.
That was all.
Morphy looked over the top of his spectacles at the entries.
“Shotter...That’s the manager of the South Counties Bank here in Tilsey; and Sharp, Phillips are local Stock and Share Brokers. Mansion House...That’s a ’phone number...”
He rubbed his chin.
“Could it mean he was in financial trouble or something? Banks, stockbrokers, phone numbers in the City. Was he sellin’ securities or trying to borrow money or...or what?”
“This book contains only his official entries, as far as I can judge. Those interviews must concern a case he had in hand. Did the Crakes bank at the South Counties...?”
“Yes, I think so. The City Treasurer’s accounts are there and most officials keep them at the South Counties for convenience, too. Yes; so did Mrs. Crake. She gave my wife a cheque for some bridge debt or other not very long ago. My wife asked me to cash it for her...It was on the South Counties.”
“I must follow this up in the morning, sir. I don’t think there’s much more we can do until then...”
The way back by road took the police car past Beyle House. The route was as black as ink, for no sign of dawn was showing. Lepers’ Hollow held a belt of mist like dark cotton-wool and the headlights of the car came back in their faces. Littlejohn got out and led the way through the valley with his torch. Below, he could hear the stream rattling over the stones, and in the woods round Beyle owls were calling. At the bridge in the hollow itself, the fog was thickest and then, as the road rose, it gradually cleared and the way became quite visible again. There, in the valley, Beyle House, its feet lost in the mist, its towers black against the surrounding night, thrust its gloomy mass to the sky and, as if to accentuate the darkness of the rest, a light shone from beneath one of the towers. It was in Uncle Bernard’s room. Littlejohn wondered what the crazy old doctor was doing at that hour, but was too tired to satisfy his curiosity. Shelldrake was waiting with hot coffee at his pub.
Next morning panic broke out in Tilsey. The strange death of the Recorder; two murders; and now the Superintendent of Police had committed suicide! Trumper’s shop did a roaring trade again. It had become a Mecca for those seeking news and theories about the recent crimes. Greatly to the disgust of Mr. Bloater, nourishing in his bosom his secret hatred of his employer, Tom Trumper expressed fantastic opinions about the murderer and even conjectured that the Superintendent had been assassinated.
“’Indoo thugs,” he breathed hoarsely, for he had been doing some drinking to quiet his nerves since his ordeal of the day before with Cromwell. “Hhhindoo thugs can make garottin’ look like suicide by ’angin’...”
A customer fainted and was given a small portion of English Brandy. Mr. Trumper’s Bargain Parcels of New Year Good Cheer sold like hot cakes and he was obliged to leave Mr. Bloater in charge of the shop whilst he withdrew to the room in the rear to mix more Cocky Dick potions.
Littlejohn had a long talk over the hot coffee with his old chief, Shelldrake, after returning in the small hours.
“We’ve discovered one or two important facts about these crimes,” he said.
“Go on...Tell me.”
“In the first place, the tale about Mrs. Crake’s killing-off her husband by exposure is probably quite untrue. Someone deliberately set it around. We’ll find out who did it. Meanwhile, I think it was done by somebody who had decided already to kill Mrs. Crake and was trying beforehand to make the crime look like a bit of family revenge. When we get down to brass tacks, nobody actually saw the thing done. Trumper, who the rumour said actually witnessed it, now denies it and tries to blame a half-wit who helps him a bit and who goes with the carollers whether they want him or not. The half-wit blames Trumper...So there we are.”
“But who can it be? Was it Simpole?”
“I hardly think so. We never thought to check his movements, of course, when the crimes occurred, but, until I’m satisfied that nobody else did it, I shall give Simpole the benefit of the doubt. He resented my intrusion, of course. As I told the Chief Constable, I think he was afraid I would find something which would implicate him, not perhaps in the killings, but, shall we say, in his relations with Mrs. Crake. He seems to have been infatuated with her.”
“Could there have been blackmail in it?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Judging from some notes he left in his diary, he might have been a jump ahead of Cromwell and me. He might even have been on the track of the murderer. Then he commits suicide. The murderer might have turned on him and threatened to ruin him if he pressed the case.”
“Meaning...he knew something dangerous for Simpole...?”
“Yes. To-morrow, I’m going to try to follow Simpole’s tracks round the town and see where they’ll lead me.”
The clock in the hall struck seven...
“I’ll try to get an hour’s sleep and then a bath. Then I must be off. We’ve a busy day in front of us.”
There were special editions of the local paper out as Littlejohn crossed the Town-Hall square to the South Counties Bank. People were buying them eagerly and reading them in the streets. Knots of idlers were gossiping at corners and the seats round the flower-beds in front of the Town Hall were filled with grim-looking men, arguing, remembering things, surmising about Simpole and his fate. As Littlejohn passed along, all eyes seemed to turn to him. He wondered what had happened until he bought a paper himself and, beneath a large sombre photograph of Simpole in full uniform, he saw a smaller picture of himself.” The Man on the Case. Famous Yard Man on the Spot.”
The bank manager received him as if he were a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
“It’s a good thing you’re here, Inspector, now that the local police have been thrown into confusion.”
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The bank was very imposing, an old private one absorbed by the larger body. There were stained-glass windows and large oil-paintings of grim bankers, dead and gone, on the walls. The seven tellers spread along the vast counter made a brave array and were frantically trying to count cash as their customers talked about the local sensation. They all looked up as Littlejohn entered. You could have heard a pin drop. It was as if he had called to single-out the killer and bear him off to the scaffold without more ado.
As soon as Littlejohn’s card was handed in to Mr. Shotter by a smiling clerk, who passed it over with a gesture which implied “Now we’re all right”, the banker emerged from his private office, wrung the Inspector warmly by the hand, took him in his lair, closed the door, and said how glad he was to see him. He was a tall, straight man, who looked like a butler when attired in formal clothes. In the tweeds and little bowler which he wore on Saturdays and half-holidays in keeping with the spirit of leisure, Mr. Shotter looked like a respectable bookie, whilst in his full evening clothes at a Masonic function, he could easily have passed for a Victorian diplomat, there to sign a secret treaty.
“Superintendent Simpole was here yesterday. He seemed quite all right. This news is altogether staggering.”
He was turning grey, with little sideboards in front of his large ears, and he had a hawk-like nose and kindly grey eyes. He wore an air of personal bereavement, because he felt that, as the one who paid Simpole’s salary and sat on the bench of magistrates served by the dead officer, he had somehow been part of the civic family.
“Was Simpole hard-up?”
“I beg your pardon.”
Mr. Shotter wasn’t used to being asked such questions in his capacity as banker. It wasn’t playing the game to ask a man’s banker the state of his account.
“Was Simpole short of money?”
“No. He was nicely off. But that is, of course, in confidence.”
“Of course. Now, please tell me something else, sir, also in confidence. Did Simpole’s account show any evidence of payments-out which might have been blackmail?”
Mr. Shotter leaned against the wall for support. For the most part, he was used to quite a humdrum provincial existence here in Tilsey. Now matters were getting a bit beyond the bounds of his experience.
“Blackmail! My dear Inspector. Whatever makes you suggest such a thing? I thought it only occurred in crime stories and on the films. Simpole? Blackmail? But he was the police. You don’t blackmail a policeman.”
“Don’t you, sir? All the same, are there any suspicious items in his account? He kept it here, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. I can soon tell you, but such a thing couldn’t occur to Simpole...”
He rang a bell and a clerk entered, hurried off for the ledger, and quickly returned. The banker made no fuss at all about showing Littlejohn the account. He was so anxious to prove his case that he overcame his natural caution. He was right. The entries were quite straightforward: income from salary; expenditure for his rooms, his tailor, his bookseller, his club. No large withdrawals over two years at least.
“And now, sir, would you tell me what brought the Superintendent here yesterday morning at 10.30?”
Mr. Shotter cast an admiring glance at Littlejohn. This was really Scotland Yard at work! Tactful, bland, polite, omniscient. He sang the praises of the police and Littlejohn that evening at his Masonic lodge.
“Yes. He called to make an inquiry about the late Mr. Crake’s affairs. It was most irregular, of course. But I knew Simpole well, knew his undoubted integrity, and trusted him with the information. I will tell you in confidence. He had been obtaining details of Mr. Crake’s estate. It seems that now that Mrs. Crake is dead, as well, a large sum passes to Alec Crake, and Nita, the daughter, is left with Beyle and the residue of the estate. Simpole was trying to find if there was any residue. In other words, had Mr. Nicholas Crake amassed other funds for his daughter? I made an exception upon Simpole’s promise to see me protected by the Courts if the information should need to be made public.”
“Will you make a similar deal with me, sir, and tell me what you told Simpole?”
“Yes. Crake, by the royalties on his books and by special counsel’s fees over and above his standing salary as Recorder, had amassed a considerable sum in a number two account. I think that must have been an absolute secret, Inspector, for there were special instructions that only the judge must be given the statements of account or details of transactions on it. I will tell you that he amassed over a period of years, ten thousand pounds in the account.”
“Ten thousand!”
“Yes. No wonder he wished it kept a secret! Had Mrs. Crake known, she would never have left him alone until she got it. I can tell you, sir, her extravagance was appalling!”
“And the money is intact, sir?”
“Not in the account; no. I told Simpole and he seemed very gratified for some reason.”
“Was the money withdrawn by the judge?”
“In a way; yes. To avoid death duties, he appointed trustees for his daughter’s benefit and the funds were withdrawn and invested in their names.”
“Who were they?”
“His own executors, Mr. Arthur Kent and Mr. Trotman, the lawyers.”
Littlejohn whistled to himself. Simpole certainly had been a jump ahead!
“And were the investments lodged with you for safe keeping?”
“No. You know how close some lawyers can be. They are so very independent! After the funds had been invested, we lost touch with them. Trotman & Co. have accounts with other banks in town, you see. We keep part of their business...As for the rest...”
Mr. Shotter shrugged his shoulders.
“Can you tell me how the money was invested, sir?”
“Yes. The cheque withdrawing the funds was made payable to Sharp, Phillips & Co., the local stockbrokers.”
“Ah!”
“I beg your pardon, Inspector...”
“Superintendent Simpole left you to call on them, yesterday?”
“Yes. He said he was going...”
There was a sudden interruption, caused by a huge woman, wearing a fur coat. A middle-aged, spoiled-child face was thrust round the door. The head was wearing a fur cap to match. Then, the mouth opened.
“Ah...There you are, dear...”
And the fur coat walked into the room.
“I’m engaged, my dear...”
“I won’t keep you a minute, Claude...”
Mrs. Shotter was in the habit of breaking in on her husband’s seclusion whenever she was in town.
“I’ve forgotten my cheque-book and I’ve just seen the sweetest...”
“You’ll excuse me, sir, if I get along? Thank you very much.”
“My wife, Inspector; this is Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, my dear...”
The banker might have been introducing the bank messenger or the car-park attendant for what it mattered. to Mrs. Shotter! She had a one-track mind of great determination and had just seen the very hat she wanted. Littlejohn escaped.
Sharp, Phillips & Co. occupied two rooms above Trotman in Bright’s Buildings. Mr. Sharp was in active control; Mr. Phillips was his father-in-law, at present a guest in a home for inebriates.
“What can I do for you?”
The office girl had led the Inspector into a cosy room with little sign of stockbroking going on in it. The only brokers Littlejohn had previously dealt with were defaulting or decamping ones. Mr. Sharp looked as if he might join one or another of such categories sooner or later. A little dapper man with a large nose, a clipped moustache, thin receding hair which matched his thin receding chin, and the cocky manner of one who had been poor and suddenly found himself very well-off through marrying the boss’s daughter. He walked flat-footed and moved with little skipping steps.
“What can I do for you?”
Littlejohn produced his warrant-card.
“Was Superintendent Simpole in to see you, yesterday, Mr...?”<
br />
“Sharp’s the name. Yes, he was.”
He sniffed hard and cleared his throat like a dog barking. “Will you kindly tell me what he called about, sir?”
“Well...It was clients’ business and very secret. I don’t mind telling you what I told him, but you’ll have to keep it under your hat.”
“I’ll see you’re protected if I have to make it public.”
“Right. Well, it concerns an important firm of solicitors in this town, so, if you blow the gaff, I’ll be for it...”
“I said I would see you protected, sir. What was it about?”
“Well...Some time ago, Trotman & Co. invested some trust funds for Mr. Nicholas Crake on behalf of his daughter, Miss Juanita. The Superintendent wanted to know if the investment was sold later. That was all.”
“And was it sold?”
“Yes, it was. Nearly a year ago.”
“What was done with the funds, sir?”
“The cheque was handed over to Trotman & Co. I don’t know why they did it, or where the money went. It may be they were changing investments. There was certainly capital improvement in the stock and it paid to sell for the profit.”
“What was the stock, sir?”
“War Loan, all of it.”
Mr. Sharp lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and put his hands behind his head.
“Did Superintendent Simpole want to know anything else, sir?”
“Yes. He asked how it was transferred. I said by Bank of England transfer signed by the two trustees...”
“Messrs. Trotman and Kent?”
“That’s right. I told him, and then he asked if it would be possible for anybody to see the transfer. I said I didn’t know. That rested with the Bank of England Stock Office.”
“Do you know Mansion House 05433, sir?”
“Of course. Our London broker...”
Crime In Leper's Hollow Page 13