Death Of A Tin God (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Read online

  Death of a Tin God

  George Bellairs

  © George Bellairs 1961 *

  *Indicates the year of first publication.

  CONTENTS

  1 Little Tin God

  2 Exit Hal Vale

  3 Another World

  4 Montjouvain

  5 Aix-en-Provence

  6 The Intruder

  7 At the Carlton Again

  8 Back Stairs

  9 Man in Dark Glasses

  10 London

  11 The Watcher in the Night

  12 The Woman's Way

  13 The Firing Squad

  1

  LITTLE TIN GOD

  LITTLEJOHN WONDERED WHERE he'd seen the man before.

  He was tall, well-built, handsome, and dressed in an expensive suit of grey tweed. He moved in the aura of a V.I.P., which was confirmed by the way in which the stewardess of the Aer Lingus 'plane and a number of 'teenaged passengers were behaving. They hovered around him breathlessly and some of them asked for his autograph on any pieces of paper they could lay hands on.

  Two days before, Littlejohn hadn't even thought of holidays, although it was the time of the year when business was comparatively slack at Scotland Yard. The crooks were migrating abroad or to fashionable English resorts, following the tide of holidaymakers. The July of a splendid English summer. Even in London, the air seemed spiced with the breath of the sea, and the sun was hot and bright and eager.

  Then, Clara Tebbs had vanished. There was little news for the headlines at the time, and the dailies had given Clara a real fanfare.

  LONDON SHOPKEEPER VANISHES

  Miss Clara Tebbs, who keeps a corner shop in Shepherd's Bush, vanished into thin air yesterday in Dublin. One of a party of thirty-seven on a day trip, she left the coach from the air terminal in O'Connell Street and has not since been seen. . . .

  There followed a description and a photograph. The question on the lips of all who saw the portrait was: "Who'd want to run away with Clara Tebbs?" She was fifty-four, small, thin, and tired-looking through hard work. The dailies gave their readers the comfort of saying that the Dublin police and Scotland Yard were on the job. Through the absence of a colleague on holiday, Littlejohn had become involved, and when a message arrived from Dublin to say that the Irish police had found Clara, unconscious, in a city hospital, he'd decided he had better cross to Eire to identify her. When he arrived, it wasn't Clara at all. The woman in the hospital had been claimed already.

  However, a consoling telegram had arrived at Dublin police headquarters.

  See from news that you are in Dublin. Counting on you to call here for a day or two on your way home.

  It was from the Rev. Caesar Kinrade, Archdeacon of Man, and his old friend.

  So, here he was.

  There was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement in the aircraft, as though something phenomenal was going to happen at any time. The V.I.P. was sitting alone in a seat in front of Littlejohn's. There was a scent of male cosmetics on the air. Littlejohn was trying to read, but from the looks of the hostess, he was sure he was committing a sacrilege or discourtesy. Finally, the girl could stand it no more. She bent smiling over the Superintendent.

  "The man on the seat in front of you, sir, is Hal Vale."

  Hal Vale! That was it! The film star. What a man to kick up a fuss about! Divorced three times and now ready for his fourth marriage. Darling of the hot press columnists and slick photographers.

  "Who's Hal Vale?"

  He couldn't help it!

  The hostess gave him a compassionate look. Even Mr. Vale half turned and then decided he'd perhaps better not.

  "Don't you know, sir? He's the famous film star. Crossing now to the Isle of Man for his sequences in a new film they're doing there."

  The girl was in full spate.

  "The film company's been there on location for over a week. He's joining them now. The film's called 'Women Who Wait'. He plays opposite the French star Monique Dol. You'll be coming across them, I'm sure, sir."

  God forbid!

  Hal Vale was snapping his fingers angrily for another drink. Some of the other occupants of the 'plane almost rose to get it for him, but the hostess was first.

  Littlejohn was glad when they touched-down at Ronaldsway airport. The restlessness of the man in the seat in front bothered him. He was aware he was on parade and couldn't keep still for a minute in his almost vulgar efforts to attract attention. As soon as they drew-up on the tarmac, Hal Vale, who had been sulking to himself most of the journey, combed his hair, patted his tie, and assumed the smile-that-wouldn't-come-off. Like someone with his jaw and teeth struck immobile in the act of saying ' Cheese! '

  There was a cheering crowd waiting for the 'plane at the airport, but Littlejohn had one small triumph. His friend, the Archdeacon, was the only person, except officials, allowed to meet him at the door of the 'plane itself. The rest were held back by regulations only a beloved Manxman could ignore. Hal Vale, emerging last from the aeroplane for effect, gazing momentarily at the two men greeting each other so warmly. One with a magnificent froth of white beard, bright blue eyes, shovel hat and gaitered legs. The other, massive, smiling, and genuinely glad to be there. A different kind of greeting from the one waiting for Mr. Vale from the huge crowd of fans and cinema actors and technicians. They were soon passing the star round from hand to hand, tearing at him, kissing him, and paying him the homage due to a little tin god.

  Littlejohn and his friend detached themselves from the admiring mob and made for an ancient taxi, standing impudently among the magnificent vehicles brought by the film company.

  The reception party gave another cheer as Hal Vale dutifully embraced Monique Dol, an elegant pretty little French blonde with shadowy eyes and a sumptuous half-naked bosom. The cameras flashed and the discreet scent of the masculine cosmetic, expensively advertised by Vale in person over television, mingled with Monique's perfume, made specially for her, and named Damnation.

  The airport police-sergeant was excited, but not by the film-stars. He took up the telephone in his office.

  "Give me Douglas police, Inspector Knell . . . That you, Inspector? Superintendent Littlejohn's just off the incoming 'plane from Dublin!"

  Littlejohn's taxi was driven by a countryman, Teddy Looney, who looked like a character-actor from one of Marcel Pagnol's waterfront scripts. He was in trousers and shirt and wore a soiled light cap cocked over one eye.

  "Good to be puttin' a sight on ye, Inspector."

  Littlejohn had been promoted years ago, but the news hadn't yet reached Teddy!

  And then a run through the exquisite Manx country into the interior, where the hidden village of Grenaby nestled by its clear stream, far away from the sophistication of the airport and its motley new arrivals.

  Meanwhile, things were moving at Ronaldsway. The groups were sorting themselves out in order of precedence. Hal Vale, Monique Dol, and the director, a man called Agostini, specially over from Rome to direct the Manx shots in true native fashion, headed the royal procession in a large expensive car, and the rest followed. It was all very gay. The airport was bathed in sunlight, so bright that it made people look like shadows in the glare. In front, huge beds of roses and flowering plants, and farther off, a long spit of rocky coast, an hotel, a ruined oratory, and then a strip of blue sea.

  Finally, Ronaldsway settled down to its routine again, the staff glad to resume their usual jobs. The whole business had been banal and artificial, something of no importance, one which would soon be forgotten. Like t
hose dull trivial bodily aches and pains, however, which suddenly flare-up and develop into a dangerous fatal malady. The next time Hal Vale arrived at the airport he was in his coffin.

  The procession made its way swiftly to Douglas. Hal Vale took no interest in the scenery en route. He said he was tired and he looked it. There were bags under his eyes and his pouting mouth was drawn. Monique Dol caught his mood and sulked at his lack of attention, and Signor Agostini, certain in his mercurial mind that the pair weren't going to work well together, beat his fat knees in despair.

  The flags were out in honour of the fresh arrivals, flapping from the two towers of the new luxury hotel, the Carlton, in the middle of the promenade. Next morning, they were to be brought down to half-mast. But more of that later. . . .

  A cocktail-party had been arranged at the Carlton to introduce the stars to the public. The room was packed with guests who were soon to be disappointed, for Hal Vale, after ten minutes of it, declared himself exhausted and retired for a rest to prepare himself for the dinner to be held that night. Monique Dol said she, too, was tired, and left with Vale.

  At five o'clock, the bell rang in a small room on the first floor of the hotel where a maid and a waiter were quietly gossiping. A green light glowed over a label marked Suite One.

  "It's Mr. Vale," said the maid, and hastily tidied her hair and gave her face a wipe-over with a powder puff.

  The bell rang again.

  "All right. All right. . . ."

  She hurried away and soon was back.

  "He wants a valet. He's lying on the bed with his shoes and jacket off."

  "What condition is he in?"

  The waiter had served a bottle of whisky as Vale retired almost an hour earlier.

  "The bottle's half empty on the bedside table. He mustn't be quite himself; he's squirted the soda all over the bed."

  "Better get Sam. Where is he?"

  They found the valet in his own room on the top floor, listening to the racing results over the radio. Without hurrying he made his way to Suite One where the signal lamp was still showing above the door.

  Vale was lying on the bed, his collar and tie off, his hair tousled. His eyes were half-closed, his lips half-open, his hands crossed over his heart like a corpse. He turned on his side and opened one eye.

  "It's taken you a hell of a time. . . ."

  Sam apologised.

  "Next time I ring for you, see you come pronto. Now get out my evening clothes—tails—and you can shave me."

  He sat up on the bed and thrust his fingers through his hair.

  "Blast all this fuss! Why can't they leave me alone?"

  The valet, who had unpacked for Vale, quietly and methodically got out the necessary clothes and other paraphernalia. Then he took an electric razor from a leather case and a bottle of shaving lotion.

  "Shall I use the electric razor, sir?"

  "What else? I never use any other."

  Sam moved a chair under a light and stood erect to show he was ready. Vale settled himself and Sam shaved him. As he did so, he wondered what the women saw in him. Vale had a good figure and physique, true. But his face was petulant and hard. Anybody could see what a woman was in for with a man like him. And yet they kept coming and asking for more. Divorced three times, and now on the way to a fourth wedding, it was said. There was a rumour that Vale had been carrying-on with Monique Dol. It annoyed Sam. He liked Monique. A nice little dish, and kind and generous to all the servants.

  "How much longer?"

  "Just another moment, sir."

  Vale was dark and tanned, probably with the help of a sun-lamp. At close quarters his skin was coarse. It was said that he'd started at the bottom of the film world. A stand-in for somebody. He was still ill-bred and infantile under his veneer of sophistication.

  Sam ran his fingers round Vale's cheeks and chin. A good shave. Smooth and tidy.

  "Will you dress now, sir?"

  "Of course not. It's not six yet. Draw me a bath and I'll soak for half-an-hour. Come back and help me dress at half-past six."

  Sam drew the bathwater. Under cover of the splashing he expressed himself candidly and sotto voce about Mr. Vale. He stirred in bath-salts of the brand over which Mr. Vale purred on the television. When he returned to the bedroom, Vale was wearing a bathrobe and drinking another whisky and soda.

  "That'll be all, then, till half-six. And be here. Don't let me have to ring for you."

  "Very good, sir."

  Sam gathered up and disposed of the clothes which Vale had flung about the place, and cleaned the razor.

  "Don't put the shaver away. I might need to give myself another once-over later. Leave it on the dressing-table and go."

  Vale lit a cigarette and made his way a bit unsteadily to his bath.

  At exactly half-past six, the valet returned. He quietly let himself in No. One with his key and stood for a moment in the doorway. The lights were on and the bathroom door was open. All was silent. On the air, the scent of Vale's bath-salts. Sam could almost hear him saying, in his unctuous nauseating television voice, 'So, do as I do, and use Maskuleen, the virile cosmetics for fastidious men.'

  As Sam walked the distance between the outer door and the bathroom, he half sensed that something was wrong. Vale had seemed to like all the lights on in the room, as though he were afraid of the dark. There were three in the bathroom and he knew they were all burning. As he passed the dressing-table he noticed the leather razor-case was lying there open. Surely Vale—damn him—hadn't had another shave!

  The bath was behind the bathroom door and the first thing that Sam noticed was that over the washbowl a wire had been plugged in the electric-razor fitting. The other end of the wire was in the bath. He then saw the body of Hal Vale twisted and rigid in the tepid water. It appeared as if he'd scented danger, had half risen to avoid it, and death had taken him as he tried to get away.

  Sam made an impulsive move to touch the body. Then, he realised what had happened and removed the plug over the washbowl. He knew from the nature of the white plastic-coated cable what was at the other end—the end lying in the bath under Vale's body. It was the electric razor.

  The valet did not touch anything else. He hurried out to the bedside telephone.

  "Hello! Give me the manager."

  The manager thought it was Hal Vale and spoke in his most obliging voice.

  "Hello, sir. What can I do for you?"

  "It's me, sir. Sam, the valet . . ."

  "Well? What is it?"

  "Could you come to Suite One, sir. I've just found Mr. Vale dead in his bath."

  There was a bronchial gasp at the other end.

  "Don't touch a thing and don't tell a soul. Stay where you are till I get there."

  The valet didn't know what to do whilst he waited. He measured the contents of the bedside whisky bottle with his eye and saw threequarters of the contents had been drunk. The syphon was on the floor and an ashtray had been overturned, as well, sprinkling a dozen or more cigarette ends and ash over the carpet.

  Hurrying footsteps, and the manager appeared. He was breathless and excited. His hair was grey and his face was grey as well. He wore a black jacket and striped trousers and under the lights looked cadaverous. Outside, the Salvation Army band was passing in full blast. "Shall we gather at the river. . . ." The manager rushed and closed the windows.

  "He's in the bathroom. I think he's been electrocuted. You'll see."

  The manager stood for a second, his knees knocking. Electrocuted! If it had been caused by faulty wiring in the hotel, someone was going to have to pay a pretty packet in damages. He peeped round the door of the bathroom.

  "I wouldn't touch anything, sir. It's a job for the police."

  "I know. I know. Ring for a doctor. Doctor Macleod. Tell him it's urgent. . . ."

  Dr. Macleod lived just behind the hotel and was there in less than five minutes.

  "Suite One," said the receptionist who also operated the switchboard.

&nb
sp; There was nothing for the doctor to do. Vale was quite dead.

  "You've told the police?"

  "Not yet . . ."

  The manager looked completely stricken. Just his luck. An hotel full of guests and a unique occasion . . . a film company and two famous stars. And Vale had gone and electrocuted himself by trying to shave in his bath! It wasn't good enough!

  The manager rang up the police station.

  "An accident . . . Electricity? Hal Vale . . . The film star? Dear me! What a sensation . . . Yes . . . We'll be over right away."

  The policeman at the other end of the 'phone was full of inappropriate jocularity!

  The doctor had left things as they were, too. He stood by the dressing-table eyeing the room. It was a sumptuous one, specially laid-on for the famous guest. Everything tiptop, except that someone had missed dusting the cobwebs off the chandelier. His eyes fell on the razor case.

  "He ought to have known better . . . Shaving in the bath with an electric razor. It's asking for it."

  The valet had been standing by the bed, almost unobserved in the turmoil.

  "What beats me, doctor, is that, half an hour before, I'd shaved him. His face was as smooth as a baby's. . . . As smooth as glass. Why should he want to shave again?"

  The manager glared at Sam. He wasn't paid to ask questions or show signs of unusual intelligence.

  Sam told the same tale to the police when they arrived, and to the rest of the staff, and to the reporters who followed. To everybody, until they were sick of hearing it.

  Meanwhile, in an identical suite on the floor above, Miss Dol's telephone was ringing. Nobody had given her a thought during the trouble in the rooms below. In another large hotel, the Fort Anne, a Mr. William J. Armstrong was trying to get Miss Dol.

  "Please get me Miss Monique Dol at the Carlton."

  "Certainly, sir."

  Mr. Armstrong was a financier said to be interested in the new film, but he was fastidious, liked a quiet life, and preferred not to live with the publicity and vulgar advertising which went with the technical side of the business. He was very popular at his own hotel.

  The telephonists at the Carlton and Fort Anne were friends, although they'd never met in person.