Murder Makes Mistakes (The Inspector Littlejohn Mysteries Book 10), page 6
She slowly gathered herself up and turned to climb the stairs to her room.
“What ‘ad Mrs. Laxey been up to? Is it askin’ too much to want to know what an old neighbour had done wrong?”
“Nothing wrong. I’m interested in her and her daughter in connection with a case we’re on. As far as I know, Mrs. Laxey had a clean record.”
“I’m glad to ‘ear it. Decent old girl. As for her daughter... She was always lucky. A good-looker, you see, and that’s a passport to a lot o’ things, especially when there’s men about. She’s had a few in her time. She didn’t live with her mother for many a year, but visited ’er reg’lar. Some of the cars that ’ave brought her down this street would surprise you. She was lucky, as I said. Men took a fancy to ’er. But whether the money’s earned on the street or the way she did, the easier way, it’s all the same trade, isn’t it? I did ‘ear she married an old man with money in the end. Decent chap he seemed, too. Visited old Mrs. Laxey a time or two and I seen him when he did. Lucky agen, wasn’t she? Although what her husband ’ud say if he knew about ’er past life I wouldn’t like to guess. I bet the balloon would go up... Well... I must be up them stairs. They’ll be the death of me, but I got an invalid ’usband and although I’ve six children they all got married and never pay a cent towards our keep. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that when we’ve always done our best for them...? Thank you very much, sir.”
“By the way, what did Mrs. Laxey die of?”
“Bad heart. Had two or three attacks. One of ’em’ll carry ’er off, I sez to me ’usband who’s bedridden. And I was right. She was found dead in bed by the woman in the next flat who used to pop in now and then to see she was all right.”
“Was she under the doctor?”
“Oh, yes. Why not? It costs nothin’. Not that Dr. Tompion’s much good. He’s too busy to be good. In and out and a bottle of medicine an’ a free death certificate when it’s time to bury you.”
“Does he live locally?”
“Just round the corner in Sidgwick Road. So long...”
She turned and started slowly to climb the weary stairs, Littlejohn’s pound note still in her hand.
Sidgwick Road was little better than Strutt Street. Tenements, waste ground, houses converted into small factories and offices, property falling in decay. Outstanding among the rest, a detached house in a sour garden with a knotted tree overhanging the front door. A brass plate badly in need of cleaning. H. D. Tompion, M.D., Surgeon. Littlejohn rang the bell. A tired-looking woman clad in black opened it.
“Is the doctor in?”
“Yes. It’s after surgery hours and he’s resting. It’s late.”
She looked underfed and defeated and pursed her thin pallid lips in determination not to have the doctor disturbed.
“I won’t keep him long. I’m from the police.”
The woman looked scared, and hesitated.
“Won’t it do to-morrow?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s urgent.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Littlejohn stood in the gloomy hall and waited. Old-fashioned furniture looking as worn-out as the woman who had left him. The air was heavy and stale and there was a muffled silence about the place as though the occupants only spoke in whispers and moved on tiptoe over soiled old carpets and shabby rugs.
A door opened and a man appeared. Littlejohn could not make him out until he reached the thin glow of the hall light. He was speaking to someone in the room as he emerged.
“Don’t keep worrying, Amy. There’s nothing wrong. I’m quite all right.”
The anaemic woman must have been his sister. She had worn no wedding-ring and he addressed her with a mixture of familiarity and affection.
“What do you want at this hour? I’ve had a busy day.”
The man reminded Littlejohn of Crippen. The same high bald forehead, shaggy moustache, gold lozenge-shaped spectacles, peering look. He was dressed in old-fashioned clothes, too. A high starched collar held together by a string tie. Red fleshy lips under the whiskers.
“I won’t keep you. I’m interested in a deceased patient of yours...”
“Won’t it do to-morrow? It’s not all that urgent, is it?”
There was something furtive, almost sinister, about the man and, as he approached Littlejohn, the Superintendent realized that he was half drunk. He reeked of whisky. No wonder his sister had tried to keep him away.
“Oh, very well. Better come in the surgery.”
He opened a door to the left and motioned Littlejohn to follow him. An annexe, a lean-to, adjoining the house. A long waiting-room with cane chairs set against the walls and then a consulting-room behind, with a washbowl and soiled towel, an examination couch, cases of instruments, and a large cheap desk with a shabby swivel chair. The atmosphere here was stale, too, with the added unpleasantness of unwashed humanity mingled with disinfectants and drugs.
The doctor took a cigarette from a packet and lit it without offering one to Littlejohn. His moustache was nicotine-stained and his small shrivelled fingers trembled as he held the match. He waved it in the air to extinguish it and threw it on the floor under his desk.
“Well? What is it? Not an inquest on Mrs. Mackay, I hope?”
“No. Mrs. Laxey, doctor.”
“A perfectly normal case, which ran its course and ended in the only way...death. Nothing funny about it. Perfectly clear in me conscience about certifying it.”
He sat on the corner of the desk to steady himself and looked at Littlejohn suspiciously over his glasses.
“She died of heart trouble, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“Coronary?”
“Yes. She’d had two attacks before the one which finished her. She might have been living to-day if she’d done as I told her. She refused to go to hospital and would persist in getting up and messing about in her rooms. She didn’t give herself a chance. But why a police investigation? There’s nothing wrong, is there?”
“Not really, sir. How did you treat her for her illness?”
Tompion was on his guard right away. He became strictly professional.
“What has that to do with you? I’ve always had a good reputation and I didn’t sully it on this case. She was well looked-after medically, considering that she wouldn’t co-operate.”
“I’m not saying she wasn’t. Did you use the new treatment for coronary thrombosis?”
“Of course I did. I might look an old-stager, but I keep abreast of current medical practice. I’ve found the new method very good if patients will co-operate. They ought to be in hospital, but as Mrs. Laxey wouldn’t go on any account, I had to do my best at home.”
“Why wouldn’t she go?”
“Don’t ask me. She was a stupid old woman who said she wanted to die in her own bed.”
“You used dicoumarin, doctor?”
“What do you know about dicoumarin?”
Littlejohn might have been preparing to set up in opposition over the way, or else seeking free advice on how to treat himself for illness.
“I only know it is an anti-coagulant and is dangerous when used to excess.”
“Well?”
“Did you give the tablets yourself, sir, or did you leave a supply for Mrs. Laxey to take as directed?”
“I’m a busy man. I couldn’t be running round there and up three flights of stairs every time she’d to take a tablet. I left a small supply with strict instructions as to how they were to be given.”
“Who gave them to her?”
“Her daughter was here for about ten days. The old lady died while she was there.”
“You knew Emily well?”
Tompion took off his glasses and polished them with a soiled handkerchief. In the dim light he looked like a waxwork model of a poisoner.
“Yes. Known her for years. Ever since her mother came to live here. Have you finished? I’ve had a busy day and...”
“Did you get back any dicoumarin tablets left after the old lady died?”
“No, I didn’t and I was very put-out about it. One can’t play about with drugs like that, and though there couldn’t have been more than two or three tablets in the box, Mrs. Twigg said she’d thrown them in the fire. I couldn’t do anything else but believe her. But I was damned annoyed.”
“Did you, by any chance, doctor, tell Mrs. Twigg about the tablets you were giving her mother?”
“I told her they were poisonous, that’s all.”
“Did she know their name? I mean, knowing the name, she could have found out their nature and purpose in any up-to-date medical dictionary.”
“I didn’t tell her their name, I know that. But I do recollect that she asked what they were. Were they morphia, or some pain-killing drug? she asked me. I told her, no. They were what we called an anti-coagulant to destroy the clots in the blood and enable the damaged artery to heal. She was quite an intelligent young woman and understood what I was talking about.”
“Did you give her a little lecture on the dangers of using too much of the drug?”
“Of course I did. I’ve known her a long time and it’s easy to chat with her. I told her how it acted and how it had been discovered—by the observation of haemorrhagic disease caused in cattle which have eaten rotted sweet clover.”
Tompion preened himself a little as he’d probably done when swanking to the charming Mrs. Twigg.
“You’ve known Mrs. Twigg a long time, you say, doctor. What do you think of her?”
“I like her. Mrs. Laxey had a struggle to bring the girl up after her second husband died. In any event the fellow was a no-good and a sponger. Emily worked hard and later supported her mother. She got a good job as secretary to a shipping chap called Casadessus. I’ve no doubt she got in disreputable company sometimes. In fact, I know she did. I’ve seen her driving about in flash cars with bright young men who meant no good to her. I’m sure she was her boss’s mistress, too. But she seemed to settle down. Then, she developed debility and I told her the best thing for her was a sea voyage. She went on a cruise and Casadessus paid the bill. He must have rued the day for, on the cruise, she met the man she married.”
“He died last week of haemorrhage. A ruptured stomach ulcer, they said. Could it have been dicoumarin?”
Tompion almost fell off the desk.
“What the hell do you mean? Of course it couldn’t have been dicoumarin. Are you trying to involve me in something?”
“No. I’m just trying to find out what happened to the remainder of the prescription you gave to Mrs. Laxey.”
“I’m sure Emily wouldn’t kill anybody. She was too decent a girl. I’ve known her since she was a kid, and I’ve always liked her.”
“I’m glad to hear it, doctor.”
In the lobby of the house, the bell was pealing again. The woman called Amy appeared.
“It’s P.C. Gadsby... There’s been an accident in Strutt Street. Someone’s fallen from a bedroom window. Will you go, Harold?”
“I suppose I’d better... I’ve had a busy day and now I look like having a busy night. Have you finished, officer?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m at everybody’s beck and call, so one more or less doesn’t matter, does it?”
He rushed off, seized his bag, and slammed the front door behind him without another word. They could hear his footsteps running past the annexe. A harassed practitioner in a very seedy quarter, disappointed, lonely, and doing his best.
Amy led Littlejohn to the door. She looked like a waxwork figure, too. Stiffly respectable, smelling slightly of gin and eau de cologne. Probably she and her brother consoled one another and mourned with each other in their cups.
“I hope you’ve not upset my brother. He’s tired out. It’s time he retired.”
She opened the door as she spoke and, as she didn’t face Littlejohn as she addressed him, she seemed to be talking to herself.
“Good night.”
The streets were dark and the lamps were on. An ambulance passed, its bell ringing, and a crowd of women and children followed it eager for the spectacle of a body which had fallen from a third-floor back. A drunken man was singing in the street. “Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve...” The Salvation Army were holding an open-air service three blocks away and their singing mixed with that of the drunkard. “Oh that will be, glory for me...”
A telephone-box shone like a lighthouse at the end of a street a hundred yards away. Littlejohn made for it, shut himself firmly in against the music of the road, and dialled 999. He asked for Scotland Yard.
Through the night the wheels of the law moved fast. Several people were roused from their beds. An exhumation order was issued. An old lady whose house in Rushton Inferior overlooked the graveyard, got up for a dose of bicarbonate of soda, saw dim lights moving among the graves, plunged back into bed, and covered her head with the clothes. Two pathologists from the county laboratory worked in the night. They found that Richard Twigg had died from extensive internal bleeding and that his stomach was free from ruptured ulcers.
By morning, all was as before behind the church in Rushton Inferior. The faded wreaths were back in their places on the grave of Uncle Richard, and Littlejohn, who had travelled back on the midnight train, was eating bacon and eggs.
“You naughty boy,” Mrs. Groves was saying coyly, “where have you been all night?”
5
CANK GETS THE SACK
“Certainly, sir. I’ll tell her right away.”
Cank’s politeness gave Littlejohn quite a shock. Instead of being frowned upon and treated with insolence, here he was with Cank tumbling over himself to oblige.
He found Mrs. Twigg up and dressed and she received him in what appeared to be the living-room, a light and airy place at the back of the house, and furnished in expensive antiques.
“I’m glad to see you better, Mrs. Twigg.”
“Yes. I’ve improved distinctly to-day and feel more like myself again.”
She looked it, too, whether with the help of art or not it was difficult to guess. She wore a summer frock without sleeves, which accentuated the shapely whiteness of her arms, and she was taller than Littlejohn imagined from seeing her in bed. The people in Strutt Street had been right. She was a good-looker, with just a trace of vulgarity in the swing of her hips as she crossed the room to welcome him. If it could be described as a welcome. Mrs. Twigg looked scared and was obviously wondering what had caused another police visit so soon.
“Cank is much more polite, Mrs. Twigg.”
“I spoke to him about his manner. He said he’d been upset by Mr. Twigg’s death and the apparent suspicions of the police.”
“Who said we were suspicious?”
“Those were Cank’s own words. Are you suspicious?”
In her anxiety she even forgot to offer Littlejohn a seat.
“I’ve one or two more questions to ask you, Mrs. Twigg, just to clear up some matters which have puzzled me.”
“Sit down, then. Cigarette?”
He asked permission to smoke his pipe, and Mrs. Twigg took a cigarette for herself, and he gave her a light.
“Do you know what these are, Mrs. Twigg?”
He took the envelope of anti-coagulant tablets from his pocket, shook out the contents in his palm, and showed them to her.
If he had expected her to turn pale or fearful, no such thing happened. Instead, she flushed angrily and turned a glance of flaming reproach on him.
“Really, Superintendent, it wasn’t fair of you to search among my personal possessions when you were here before. You came to ask me a few questions, not to turn the house upside down for clues.”
It was Littlejohn’s turn to be irritated. He wondered if this was clever bluff or the real thing.
“What do you mean, Mrs. Twigg?”
“The tablets in that envelope were in a drawer of that desk.”
She crossed to an antique escritoire, opened the top, and then slid out one of those famous ‘secret drawers’ which everybody expects them to contain and everybody knows where to find.
“They were here. Now they’ve gone. It wasn’t fair of you.”
“Let us understand each other at once, Mrs. Twigg. This envelope and its contents were found in the pocket of Sergeant Cromwell when he was admitted to hospital, and were handed to me by the doctor.”
“So, Mr. Cromwell took them. I can’t understand why he should have done that. What reason could he have had?”
“Where did you get them, Mrs. Twigg?”
“They were the remainder of my mother’s medicine in her last illness.”
“You know what they are and their medical action?”
“They are heart tablets.”
“You know more than that, surely. Dr. Tompion told you their exact therapeutic effects on the body.”
This time she really turned pale, quickly gathered herself together, and faced him with flaring eyes again.
“I don’t understand your activities at all, Superintendent. Have you been looking into my past life and environment? I could easily have told you all you wanted to know without your taking all that trouble. Besides, what have I done wrong to merit this kind of treatment? It isn’t as if my husband had died unnaturally. As for Mr. Cromwell, why should I have tried to kill him? I was nowhere near the spot when he was shot.”
“You forced me to make enquiries, Mrs. Twigg. You were so obviously hiding something when last I asked you some questions. I’d also point out that you then gave me the impression that your mother was still alive and living in London. Why did you do that?”
She was now completely put-out. She didn’t know where to look and finally her eyes met those of Littlejohn in an effort of defiance.
