Murder Makes Mistakes (The Inspector Littlejohn Mysteries Book 10), page 8
“As if I would. But you’ve got me all wrong. I’ve always done my best. She just wants to get rid of me now the boss is gone. After all I’ve done, too.”
“You mentioned Mr. Twigg’s routine. What was it?”
“He was reg’lar as clockwork. Wet or fine he went out every mornin’ for a meetin’ with his cronies. He used to play a round of golf at one time, but he gave it up. He’d walk round the village. Any news of trouble... I mean sickness or poor people, he’d put his hand in his pocket. A proper toff that way. Four of them used to meet and, as the pubs wasn’t open, they’d often have a cup of coffee together and play dominoes for an hour or ’ave a few rounds of cards and a talk and a smoke.”
“Where?”
“Well, they used to go reg’lar to the Weatherby. They’d a table there they called their own. Sometimes one or two of ’em would stay on there for lunch. But after Mr. Twigg got married, he seemed to grow out of the Weatherby.”
“Why?”
Cank leered and passed his hand over his loose mouth.
“Well... You know Mrs. Groves is a bit odd. Too free and easy and familiar, like, with the men. It’s all right for a bit of fun if you ’appen to be unmarried, but a married man, specially Mr. Twigg, who’s jest brought home his wife, he’d naturally feel he didn’t want it. You get me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“So, him and his pals started to patronize the Green Door, a café nearly opposite the Weatherby.”
“What about the remainder of the routine, as you call it?”
“After his lunch, he’d have a nap and then...well... I’m really tellin’ you the things Mrs. Twigg could tell better. He worked in the garden on nice days, didn’t he? Or took Mrs. Twigg for a walk or a run in the car. That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Twigg? Then, in the evenin’ he always went to the Bull and Bush, a mile away at Rushton Superior. His pals met him there for an hour and then they’d come back in one or another’s car. That’s so, Mrs. Twigg, isn’t it?”
No reply.
“Who were these pals, as you call them?”
“Three retired men. One a bank manager called Temple; a chap called Wise, who farms near Rushton Superior as a kind of ’obby; and an ex-local auctioneer called Wainwright. They was a sort of little club and all good friends. To see ’em together did you good.”
“What are their Christian names, Cank?”
Cank rubbed his stubbly chin.
“They’ve called ’ere from time to time and I’ve ’eard them address one another by their first names. Let me think. Henry Temple, Joseph Wise and Frederick Wainwright... Yes, that’s it.”
Harry, Joe and Fred, of the Bull and Bush!
“They still go to the Green Door and the Bull and Bush, do you know?”
“Mr. Wise hasn’t been for a bit. He’s been ill, but he’s gettin’ around again now, I believe.”
“What’s been wrong with him?”
“I heard it was coronary thrombosis. Surprising the number who...”
He didn’t get any further. Mrs. Twigg, who had been listening to the conversation languidly, without saying a word, gave a faint cry and fell to the floor in a dead faint.
6
THE LANDLORD OF THE SILLY BILLY
It only needed a glass of water to put Mrs. Twigg right and then Littlejohn left her. He did so with puzzled feelings. The fainting fit hadn’t seemed quite genuine. She had sagged down on a soft spot on the hearthrug and recovered too easily. Had it been that she had wanted to put a stop to further questions? Or, had the perpetual topic of coronary thrombosis begun seriously to upset her? The whole business seemed to be a muddle. Switching first to Cromwell, then to Twigg, with Mrs. Twigg rapidly becoming suspect number one and Cank running a close second.
Littlejohn took the small police car and drove himself to Manchester. On his way, he stopped at a country pub for lunch. There wasn’t much peace there. There was a wedding-party in progress and they even sent a glass of champagne to Littlejohn’s table, and he drank the health of the loving couple. The head waiter confided to Littlejohn that he was fed-up and going back to London as soon as he could, and the pretty waitress, finding him courteous and cheerful, told Littlejohn she was only there learning the ropes and wanted to be an air-hostess; perhaps he could help? As he left, the landlord asked him if he knew anybody who wanted to buy a good pub as he himself was fed-up, too, and anxious to get out.
In Manchester, Littlejohn met his wife and Mrs. Cromwell. They were both more cheerful. Cromwell had now recovered consciousness and was getting along nicely.
“But you can only stay five minutes; rest is essential,” said the sister, a nice girl who was relieving the regular one whose day-off it was. She was dark and good-looking, but when she wasn’t busy her face wore a scared, melancholy look. A young American doctor who had been in the hospital on study-leave for a year had written on his return to Texas to say that he couldn’t settle down without her. Would she cross the Atlantic and marry him? She was off at the end of the month. She dreamed at night and had visions by day of vast sandy wastes sprouting enormous cactus bushes, and huge rocks like nightmare cinema organs, and chains of purple mountains peopled by gun-slingers and men who spoke in a strange, drawling tongue. Her education about her new home had been derived from the picture-house down the road, which she frequented when off duty.
“Have you ever been to Texas, Superintendent?” she asked Littlejohn, àpropos of nothing at all, and when he looked surprised, she told him it didn’t matter and that he mustn’t talk to Cromwell yet.
The surgeon arrived to have a word or two with Littlejohn. He had just finished an operating session and still wore his white gown.
“How is he, sir?”
“Getting along fine, now. He’s a lucky man. Another fraction of an inch and he might have died, or, at least, been badly damaged for the rest of his life.”
“Could I have a word with him? He needn’t reply. I’m anxious to get hold of whoever shot him and I badly need his help.”
“Let’s go and have a try. A minute or so won’t do him any harm. Don’t press him hard.”
“I won’t.”
Mrs. Cromwell and Littlejohn’s wife discreetly withdrew from the bedside as the two men approached.
Cromwell’s face lit up at the sight of the Superintendent and he tried to say something. He still looked pale and exhausted in his turban of bandages. Littlejohn tapped his hand which lay outside the bedclothes.
“Don’t try to talk, old chap. We’re all glad you’re getting better and you’ll soon be back with us. The doctor says I can ask you a question or two. Don’t try to speak. Just raise your forefinger a bit if the answer’s ‘yes’ and make no sign if it’s ‘no’. Get it?”
The forefinger twitched.
“You left your uncle’s house and walked to the village chemist’s. You were there half an hour, left, crossed the road, and then were shot?”
A pause. Cromwell’s eyes were on Littlejohn’s face but he didn’t move.
“He doesn’t know what’s the matter with him,” explained the surgeon. “We haven’t told him yet.”
Littlejohn repeated his question but instead of mentioning the bullet, said ‘you remembered nothing more’.
The finger was raised.
“You found a crushed white tablet near your uncle’s desk and went to the chemist to try and find out what it was.”
The answer was in the affirmative.
“Did you suspect foul play against your uncle?”
The answer was ‘No’.
“So, it was just the finding of the tablet which started your suspicions?”
The finger was raised again.
“And that was as far as it went? No suspects?”
No.
“Did you see who shot at you? You see, someone shot you. That is why you’re here.”
No, again. This time Cromwell seemed relieved. Now that he knew what had happened, a load was lifted from his mind, obviously. He even smiled slightly.
“You don’t know anyone who might have wished to keep you silent?”
No movement of the finger.
“I think that had better be enough,” interposed the doctor. “We don’t want to tire him. I hope it’s helped you.”
“Very much.”
He bent and patted Cromwell’s hand again.
“You’ve been a great help, old man. Now you must rest. I’ll be back to see you to-morrow. I’m staying here until I can take you home with me.”
He left him with Mrs. Cromwell and, bidding his wife good-bye, too, set out for Rushton.
He drove abstractedly. Candidly, Cromwell’s replies had given him no lead at all. The sergeant had simply found Cank handling the tablets from Richard Twigg’s desk, come upon one of them crushed on the carpet, and taken it to the chemist to satisfy his own curiosity. Twigg had died from an overdose of the anti-coagulant, but Cromwell hadn’t known that. And, as he emerged from the chemist’s he’d been wantonly shot. Shot by a weapon which, judging from the bullet, was almost a toy; a pop-gun, to use the surgeon’s words.
Littlejohn felt completely at sea. It seemed as though the emotion of investigating the crime against his friend had got mixed up with the case and fogged his powers of perception and deduction. He felt hot and tired and decided that a cup of tea would do him good. He was near the William IV, the hotel at which he’d had his lunch and from which the owner and staff seemed anxious to part. Colloquially known as the Silly Billy by the natives, the place was rapidly becoming a road-house and Littlejohn pulled-in to get himself his tea.
The same waitress served him and asked him again if he knew who could help her to become an air-hostess. He recommended that she should write to the airline offices. She said she would and brought him an extra couple of soiled-looking ice-topped cakes as a reward. He finally rose to go, feeling much better for the change. In the passage by the door, the landlord was talking to another man.
“Have a drink, doctor?”
“You know it isn’t hours. Besides, I never take it when I’m driving. You ought to know that by now.”
Littlejohn turned and saw that it was Dr. Clinton, of Wiston Purlieu. The doctor took no heed of him, but walked to where his car was parked, jumped in, and drove off without a word of good-bye to the landlord.
Shoesmith—for so he was named on the licensing sign over the door—turned to look for someone to complain to and his eye fell on Littlejohn.
“By God! If that chap wasn’t such a good doctor and my wife won’t have anybody else, I’d take a runnin’ kick at the seat of his pants. I never knew such a rude blighter.”
“Is your wife ill, then, landlord?”
“Arthritis. She can hardly walk sometimes. It’s the district. Built on clay. Rheumaticky as hell all around here. If you know anybody as wants a pub, let me know. As soon as I can be rid, I’m off down south where it’s dry. Then my missus’ll pick up and we can get a new doctor. Clinton gets my goat good and proper. And yet, the women are mad on him. My wife thinks the world of him and many’s the row we’ve had when I’ve expressed my mind about him. What women can see in some chaps beats me. Rude and uncouth, that’s what I call him. But he must have some attraction for ’em. I can’t see any...”
“Is he a ladies’ man?”
“You might say yes and you might say no. I could tell you a thing or two, and it wouldn’t be gossip either. I’ve had it from a good source.”
The landlord closed his mouth tightly, apparently pondering whether or not to confide in Littlejohn. The Superintendent waited.
Then something seemed to strike the landlord. He looked a bit put-out.
“I don’t want you to think I’m referring to my wife and the doctor.”
“Of course not.”
“He’d better not try his games on here. Strictly professional are his visits to the William. If I thought... Well... I’d kick him all the way back to Wiston...”
The landlord of the Silly Billy took out a packet of cigarettes, stuck one at an angle in the corner of his mouth, and gave one to Littlejohn, who lighted them both with a match.
They stood at the door of the inn looking across the sunlit fields to the hills, with clumps of fine old trees breaking the view on the rising ground.
“To look at Clinton and hear him talk, you’d think he hadn’t any vices. Doesn’t smoke, won’t take a glass of beer, always prim and proper. That is, when he’s in the company of the likes of me. I’m not good enough for him to smoke or drink with. He only does that with the gentry.”
“He’s a snob?”
“You’re tellin’ me. But I know a thing or two about doctor clever Clinton.”
Shoesmith paused again. This time it was for effect. There was an aroma of whisky about Shoesmith which gave the reason for Clinton’s distaste and his own funny mood.
“He carries on with a married woman, on the side. Or, at least, she was married till a few days ago, when her elderly husband kicked the bucket. Now Clinton will be able to make an honest woman of ’er. He’s a childless widower. The pair of them can team-up and spend the old chap’s money.”
“Who’s the old chap?”
“Fellow called Twigg, at Rushton Inferior. Worth a packet, they say. It was his missus. They kept it dark, ’er and Clinton between them, but sometimes, when they’re desperate, caution goes by the board, doesn’t it? They made a slip...or rather, she did. I got to know.”
“How did it happen?”
Shoesmith paused and turned to Littlejohn with a stubborn look.
“Who are you, anyway? I like you, but I really shouldn’t be shootin’ off my mouth like this to a stranger. You might be a relative or friend of the doctor or his lady friend and then I might be in a mess. Slander, you know. I once knew a fellow...”
“My name’s Littlejohn. Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard. You’ll have heard of the detective-sergeant who was shot in Rushton the other night. He’s a colleague of mine and I’m here inquiring about it.”
“You should have said so at first. I don’t want to get mixed up with the police by talking too much. In any case, Clinton and Mrs. Twigg aren’t concerned with your case, so we’ll let it drop, if you don’t mind.”
Somewhere a stable clock struck five. There was hardly a soul about. Now and then a car passed, but there was nobody in for tea and the iced cakes looked like having to wait for yet another day.
“Look at this. Not a soul in for tea. I was done good and proper when I took over here. They said it was a gold mine. Must have cooked the books. I’m just making ends meet. Now, you wouldn’t like a nice country pub to retire to, would you, sir? It could be worked-up, you know. Only the wife isn’t too well. Else I’d have made a go of it. Know what they call this pub locally? The Silly Billy. It’s me who’s the Silly Billy...”
He lit another cigarette.
“If it hadn’t been closing hours and you the police, I’d have offered you a drink on the house with me just to drown my disappointment.”
“I think you’d better tell me the end of the story about the doctor and Mrs. Twigg. You see, the man who was shot was Mr. Twigg’s nephew.”
The landlord smiled bitterly and gave vent to his smoker’s cough. When he’d recovered his wind and his colour, which had turned livid from his contortions, he spoke huskily.
“I seem to have landed myself in a bit of a mess talking too fast, don’t I?”
A small, paunchy man with dark protruding eyes, fat cheeks and a little waxed moustache, he looked like a shrunken retired sergeant-major.
“This’ll be in confidence. Not that it isn’t true, but I don’t want any bother. I’ve my customers and the goodwill of the pub to think of. Agreed?”
“Right.”
“It’s simple. I’ve got a pal who keeps the Royal George at Siseley, seven miles in the Chester direction. With the missus bein’ what you’d call hors di combat...or it is hors di oovre?... I don’t know which, but it doesn’t matter. I mean with her not gettin’ out, I stay with her in the day and, after we close at night, I take the car to Siseley and have a drink with the Stubbses at the George. I’ve got to get away from the place now an’ then, else I’d go right off me chump. Well, it seems Clinton and the Twigg woman met there one day. It’s well outside the eyes of the locals here and the doctor’s patients. That’s why they met there, I suppose. But, mind you, the doctor didn’t like it.”
“In other words, Mrs. Twigg made the rendezvous?”
“Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes. She sent for ’im.”
“Why didn’t he like it?”
“Said it was dangerous. Stubbs overheard them. They was alone in the tea-room there in the middle of the afternoon with nobody else about. They wasn’t there long. She wanted to tell him her husband had tumbled to what was goin’ on.”
“Rather a long way to go for such a short talk.”
“Oh, you haven’t got what I mean. Stubbs said she seemed crazy about the doctor. And him just a bit cool and afraid somebody might come along and catch ’em at it. But you know what women are when they’re that way. They throw caution to the winds, don’t they? Stubbs said from what he could gather she’d been callin’ on the doctor as a patient and then they’d started carryin’-on together. The doctor was sayin’ she couldn’t call at his house any more. She was put-out and said she wouldn’t give ’im up, and he said he’d think of somethin’ and ring her up. She said not to use the phone. Somebody was always about listenin’...”
“That would be Cank, their servant. He’s probably as good an eavesdropper as your friend Stubbs.”
“He’s a decent chap, is Stubbs. He said he was just outside the door comin’ in for their order when he heard them talkin’ quiet and confidential-like, and didn’t think it right to disturb them. He only stood waitin’ for a minute or two.”
