Cromwell returned home a fortnight later and, after a long convalescent holiday in Cornwall, where he had first met his wife, he returned to duty little worse for his escapade. He was flabbergasted when he learned the whole of the train of events his shooting affair had touched off.

  “If you hadn’t come along to see about me, Uncle’s murder would have gone undetected.”

  “I almost lost the case, old man. I knew who and how about it, but I couldn’t bring home the guilt. Interviewed separately, I think the pair of them might have wriggled out. In a crowd, in the over-heated sitting-room, with a thunderstorm brewing, they broke down...or rather, she did. He was a devil. He’d have slipped through the net, and she saw it. That’s why she shot him.”

  As for Beeton, whose affair seemed idyllic compared with the Twigg murders, he served a mere month or two, nominal sentence for bigamy.

  Mrs. Hardcastle forgave him and met him as he came out of prison. She appeared at his trial, after newspapers had made it a public affair, and was even prepared to say what a good husband and father he’d always been, a man who needed a change now and then, because of his lively intelligence.

  Mrs. Beeton left all she had to Hardcastle. He is now having a house built in the country not far from Birmingham airport. He wrote from prison to thank Littlejohn for being a true friend!

  BONES IN THE WILDERNESS

  GEORGE BELLAIRS

  WHAT’S HAPPENED TO CHEEVER?

  When Samuel Cheever went on his holidays to France, nobody in Francaster bothered much about it. After all, shopgirls, office-boys, mill hands, even dustmen, were going abroad; why not Cheever?

  But when Samuel didn’t return, everyone began to sit up and take notice.

  “What’s happened to Cheever?”

  When they asked his wife, who stayed at home ostensibly to look after the shop, she said she didn’t know and she couldn’t care less. Which was not quite true. They had been married for twenty-five years and had three married children. All that time, Samuel had been unfaithful to Annie, who knew every light of love he had slept with since the first time he’d betrayed her. When her husband didn’t return from his holiday, Annie made sure that all Cheever’s loves, past and present, were in town. She was satisfied that he hadn’t eloped with any of them. Perhaps there was a new one…. That inference was very unlikely, because Cheever had left a substantial balance in the bank and an even larger wad of pound notes bricked-up in a cavity which had once contained an old wash-boiler in the cellar.

  All Mrs. Cheever cared about was knowing that Samuel had gone for good. Or would he come back again, one day, like a bad penny? The uncertainty was disturbing.

  Then the population of Francaster in general began to worry.

  “What’s happened to Cheever?”

  They missed his fat, stocky figure, surmounted by a greasy bowler-hat pressed down to his ears. True, Cheever had left for his holidays clad in flannels and a blazer with a phoney coat-of-arms on the pocket, but that wasn’t the man they knew. The day-to-day Samuel was seedy and shabby, like a lot of the second-hand articles in which he dealt. He described himself officially on his passport as a Furniture Dealer, but there were other things. Those who had articles for sale by night and behind closed doors missed Cheever most. They grew anxious and annoyed.

  “What the ‘ell’s happened to Cheever?”

  Finally, after Samuel had been absent a month and the mayor had commented on it to the chairman of the Watch Committee, Inspector Sadd, of the Francaster C.I.D., called on Mrs. Cheever. He was a tall, melancholy, well-mannered officer, with a heavy jowl across which he was constantly passing his hand as though wondering whether or not he’d shaved properly that morning.

  “What’s happened to Mr. Cheever?”

  The shop stood in a narrow alley just off the town-hall square. A dark place with two windows badly in need of cleaning and full to overflowing with junk of every description. A bell on a spring over the door pealed as the policeman entered and a smell of old clothes, second-hand upholstery and dust met him.

  Mrs. Cheever was sitting in an old rocking-chair trying to read the morning paper by the dim light from the windows.

  NAKED PRINCESS FOUND DEAD IN BATH FOREIGN ARISTOCRAT SUSPECTED

  And a photograph of the victim with nothing on.

  Mrs. Cheever was lapping it up. Sadd had to ask her again.

  “What’s happened to Mr. Cheever?”

  Annie Cheever was a little, muscular middle-aged woman with a mop of close-cut grey hair, a chubby face almost the colour of butter, and a huge bosom which, owing to her position in the chair, seemed to be supported by her knees. She had been rocking to and fro in ecstasy at the morning’s news, and every time the chair tipped back, her short legs were raised a foot in the air. She wore a shabby skirt and a soiled grey jumper.

  “How should I know? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Sadd sighed. He’d expected this. The Cheevers were a secretive lot. They had much to hide and keep quiet about, and they were as close as a couple of oysters.

  “Aren’t you anxious, Mrs. Cheever?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “He always turns up. He’ll be back.”

  “He’s been gone a month, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes. That’s nothin’. He was once off for three months. But he came back, didn’t he?”

  If it was supposed to be a joke, Sadd’s mournful face didn’t register it. Cheever had once served three months in Strangeways Gaol for receiving stolen goods. The only time the police had ever caught him.

  Sadd took out a small cigarette, lit it, and sat on a second-hand armchair near the door. There was a crack and the whole thing collapsed under him. He extricated himself from the parts, dusted himself down, and started to puff his cigarette again as though nothing comic had happened. But it had, at least, moved Mrs. Cheever. She sprang from the rocking-chair nimbly and reproached him.

  “Now look what you’ve done! Who’s goin’ to make good the damage? If youmust sit down, sit there….”

  She indicated a wooden seat which Cheever had bought from the town council and which had once been one of many round the bandstand in the park.

  “But I don’t see why you need stay on. I’ve nothing to tell you. I don’t know where my husband is any more than you do.”

  “What part of France did he go to?”

  “All over the place.”

  “You were there last year, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. I left our Alice lookin’ after the shop, and never again. The money her and her husband must ’ave helped themselves to is anybody’s guess. When my ’usband started to talk about goin’ to France again this year, I put me foot down. You’ll go yourself, I sez to ‘im. I’m not leavin’ the shop. So he went on his own.”

  “Was he fond of France?”

  “I’ll say he was. He was there in the 1914-18 war and again at the start of the last war. Before 1939, he went quite a lot to stay with people he was billeted with in 1918. He was sweet on one of the daughters. I wasn’t supposed to know, but I’ve me own ways of findin’ out things.”

  “Did he speak French, then?”

  “What he’d picked up there, though I must say he was never short of a word and always understood what was said to ‘im and could make himself understood, too. I guess it was that woman saw to his eddication in that respect.”

  “Has he gone to see his friends again this time?”

  Mrs. Cheever sat down again and started to rock. The arc described by the chair grew wider and wider and Sadd grew anxious as to whether or not Mrs. Cheever would eventually take a toss right over the chair-back.

  “He’d call, I know. He always did. It was this way…. My ’usband does a trade in antiques. Bein’ in this business so long, he’s got to know what’s what.”

  “I’ll bet he has.”

  The rocking ceased. Mrs. Cheever’s copious bosom heaved.

  “If that crack was supposed to be clever, I’m too busy to bother with you any more. So, I’ll bid you good mornin’.”

  “Don’t be so touchy. I was simply agreeing.”

  “It was the way you said it. Now an’ then, we get somethin’ good comes in. Furniture, china, ecksetera…. My ‘usband has good markets for gettin’ rid of it. It mostly goes abroad through men in the trade in London.”

  “Well? What has that to do with going to France?”

  “I’ll tell you, if you’ll stop interruptin’. Last year, he bought one or two good things on our ’olidays. We went on a motor-coach trip. Nice was one of the places. There was antique shops everywhere we called. Some was dear; others was very cheap. My ’usband picked up one or two odds and ends and brought them home with ‘im. You’d be surprised the prices he got for them. And you can get antiques through the Customs without payin’. This year, he made up his mind to go agen. Said he’d travel on the cheap and save his foreign allowance to buy with.”

  “Did he take your allowance, as well?”

  “What’s it got to do with you? You can consider yourself lucky I’ve told you wot I have. I’m not forced to tell you anythin’. It’s just out of the goodness of my ‘eart, I’ve told you. And what do I get? Insults!”

  Sadd smiled gently.

  “I said, don’t be so touchy. I was only joking. I appreciate what you’ve told me. But you must admit, I’m only asking you in your own interest. You want to know what’s happened to him, don’t you? Even if he’s met with an accident and died—which I sincerely hope isn’t the case—you’ll have to find out sooner or later. You can’t go on like this. Do you want us to help?”

  Mrs. Cheever thought it out carefully, judging from her attitude, and then agreed she’d better know.

  “After all, there’s carryin’ on the business, and money matters, isn’t there? If he doesn’t come back, I’ll ’ave to prove somethin’ to get the business, won’t I? You’d better find out for me.”

  Spoken thus, it sounded easy. Sadd nodded as though it was.

  “Very well. We’ll make further enquiries. Did he book his tickets in advance?”

  “I think so. He went to Hampole’s Travel Agency, I know that. And to the bank…. They’ll tell you. Let me know as soon as you can whether he’ll be comin’ back or not.”

  Sadd paused as if to ask another question. It all seemed so queer. He wondered if Mrs. Cheever knew a bit more about the disappearance of Samuel than she was making out. Perhaps she herself….

  He shrugged his shoulders, bade her good morning, and the bell over the door tolled him out.

  Hampole’s Tea Shop was a few steps away in one corner of the town-hall square. They sold groceries and the windows were full of presents you could win by saving the coupons given away with quarter-pounds of tea. In addition they were travel agents. There was a lurid bill stuck on the glass panel of the door. COME TO FRANCE. It seemed like an invitation to Inspector Sadd.

  Mr. Hampole was busy weighing out bags of soda. His daughter, Grace, looked after the travel and occupied a pen in one corner. Another poster stuck across the front of the desk. Visitez le Côte d’Azur. “It creates a h’atmosphere,” Mr. Hampole had told his daughter when they put it up. “Vizity li Coaty dazzurr. It sounds good….”

  The Hampoles received Sadd very kindly. They were a naturally cheerful couple and besides, Mrs. Sadd was a good customer.

  “Good morning, Inspector.”

  Mark Hampole was a medium-built, solid, middle-aged grocer, and a widower with only his daughter, Grace, to look after him. They were a jolly pair who always seemed to have some secret joke between them and were in the habit of nodding, smiling or laughing at each other across the shop on even the busiest days. “Life wouldn’t be worth livin’ if it weren’t for yewmour,” was Hampole’s favourite saying, and he lived by it.

  Grace was a chubby girl in her mid-twenties. She had dark, striking features and a rosy complexion. She was being ardently courted by the French master of the town grammar school, who, it was locally rumoured, had a keen interest in the tourist section of the business. Hampoles were agents for Sweetman’s Tours.

  “What did I tell you? I said he’d be here sooner or later.” Mr. Hampole giggled across at his daughter, who giggled back.

  Sadd wasn’t amused. He had little or no sense of humour and the twittering and chuckling of the Hampoles always put him out of countenance. It was like listening to a couple speaking a foreign language you didn’t understand.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That you’d be in sooner or later, asking about Mr. Cheever. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  Hampole almost danced a jig in his glee.

  “Travel department, forward,” he called to Grace, and then his fun was interrupted by the arrival of grocery customers who kept him busy for quite a while.

  Grace smiled at Inspector Sadd, who blushed. In secret, he thought her the bonniest girl in Francaster. Clever, too. Knew French very well and that was why her father had set her up in the travel line.

  “Did you book the tickets for Mr. Cheever when he left for France, Miss Hampole?”

  “Yes, Inspector. He didn’t reserve any hotels, though. He wanted the cheapest form of travel and we gave it to him.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I’ll look it up. Just a minute.”

  She giggled.

  “What’s so funny about a man vanishing, Miss Hampole?” said Sadd in a nettled, official voice.

  “I can’t help thinking of him when he called to pick up his tickets. He wore a blazer and flannels. A regular masher, he was….”

  Mr. Hampole paused in his slicing of Danish bacon and the pair of them enjoyed a good laugh.

  “I’m sorry….”

  Grace Hampole apologised for her levity, and ran her forefinger down a column in a ledger.

  “Here we are. Francaster, Newhaven-Dieppe, Paris, Nice.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He asked if he could break his journey with the tickets. I said yes.”

  “Did he mention where he wanted to break it?”

  “He talked of getting off at Cannes…. Oh, and Avignon and Arles. It all seemed a bit funny to me, I must say. Imagine Mr. Cheever in Avignon and Arles…. Or, for that matter, on the Riviera at all. In his blazer….”

  Mr. Hampole paused in the middle of slapping butter.

  “Imagine him…. In his blazer….”

  He couldn’t continue and was lost in gusts of mirth.

  “Is that all?”

  Sadd said it again, this time in an acid voice.

  “Yes, I think so. Wait…. There was another place he wanted to call at, too. Let me see…. Ah, yes … Mâcon….”

  Miss Hampole’s mouth in saying it looked like that of a fish in an aquarium.

  “Mâcon…. Spell it, please.”

  “M-a-c-o-n…. Circumflex over the A….”

  “Eh?”

  She leaned across and put a hook over the appropriate letter in Sadd’s notebook.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Not far from Lyons.”

  “Eh?”

  “L-y-o-n-s…. Mâcon’s a wine-producing place.”

  “Any size?”

  “Twenty-one thousand inhabitants. Seat of the prefecture of Saône et Loire…. A county town…. I looked it up when Mr. Cheever asked about it.”

  “There should be some antique shops there, I suppose. Did Cheever specially enquire about it?”

  “Only about breaking his journey there. He seemed to have looked it up beforehand. He knew where it was and all about it. He said so. He was that way. Liked showing-off.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Hampole. That will be all for the present. You’ve been a big help.”

  Mr. Hampole signalled across to his daughter that he was proud of her by grinning and making a jaunty gesture with his head.

  “Good day, Inspector. A pleasure, I’m sure.”

  Outside, the sun was shining and the people of Francaster were going peacefully about their daily business. A pleasant, large public square, with a big town-hall and gardens, and banks, shops and cinemas lining two sides of it. Sadd paused for a minute, getting his eyes accustomed to the daylight and his nose used to the fresh air after the dim, aromatic recesses of Hampole’s shop. Then he crossed the square and entered the Home Counties Bank.

  This was the largest bank in the town, formerly the Francaster Union Bank, and carried the marble pillars and sumptuous woodwork of days gone by. All four cashiers nodded at Sadd. The chief hailed him.

  “Morning, Inspector. Not another lot of forged notes, I hope?”

  “No. Nothing of that sort. Is Mr. Hobhouse in?”

  The cashier disappeared and then returned to conduct Sadd to the manager’s office, where Mr. Hobhouse himself was sitting, selecting victims for the next credit squeeze. The room was large and opulent and had once been the boardroom of the Francaster private bank.

  “Hullo, Inspector. And what can we do for you?”

  Mr. Hobhouse was a tall, grey-haired, fresh-faced, middle-aged man, who, on account of the size of his business was the acknowledged dean of the banking faculty in the town. His responsibilities rested lightly upon him and he was sociable and cheerful. He rang the bell on his desk and, when a junior appeared, he ordered a cup of coffee for Sadd.

  “It’s very kind of you, sir.”

  “You don’t often call, Sadd.”

  They talked about Cheever over their coffee.

  “Yes, he came here for his currency and travellers’ cheques. He took the full hundred pounds’ worth of cheques for himself and the equivalent of a hundred pounds in French notes for Mrs. Cheever. It was marked off on their joint passport.”

  “And his wife didn’t go.”

  “So I gather. I shall have something to say about that to our friend when he returns.”

  “If he ever does.”

  Mr. Hobhouse raised alarmed eyebrows.

  “Do you think something has happened to him?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I’ve got a hunch we shan’t see him again.”

 

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