Devious Murder Read online

  The landlord let it go at that, and as he seemed to be settling down for another session of his cough Littlejohn thanked him and went on his way to Afton Lodge.

  It was a modern building on the site of a previous mansion, a pleasant place with a large garden in which the inmates were strolling or standing talking in small knots. Everybody seemed cheerful, and they greeted Littlejohn as he passed as though they had known him all his life. It was too damp and cold to sit out in the watery sun, but they didn’t seem to mind.

  Littlejohn asked for the matron and told her the purpose of his call. She was a large smiling woman, but the news obviously made her unhappy.

  ‘Poor Mr. Blunt. This is going to upset him. He and his son were very close. I’ll have him called. He’s probably in the billiards room. He’s the champion of this place at billiards. He loves teaching the other men the game and going over his memories of it. You’d better break it to him gently. Charles used to visit him regularly.’

  She left him in a small room set aside for visitors and soon returned with Alfred Blunt. He had not changed much since Littlejohn had met him years ago. A little, chubby man with a healthy pink complexion and a mop of silky white hair. He gave Littlejohn a surprised anxious look, as though expecting some bad news. Littlejohn offered him his hand and Blunt took it in an uncertain grip.

  ‘I know you, don’t I? Is it about Charles? He’s not been …?’

  He paused as though short of words to express his confused feelings.

  ‘Shall we sit down, Mr. Blunt?’

  ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. These deep armchairs are a bit awkward for old bones. Once down in them you’ve a job at my age to get on your feet again. Is Charles in trouble with the police? There must be some mistake.…’

  It was Littlejohn’s turn to seek for words. He was very moved by the old man’s growing distress.

  ‘Has there been an accident or something?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Blunt, but he’s dead.’

  The anxiety faded from the old man’s face and a look of resignation, the refuge of the unfortunate, took its place.

  ‘What happened? Tell me how it happened. I can take it.’

  He gave Littlejohn a pleading look but showed no physical reaction to the news. No tears, no complaints, or even a change of colour.

  ‘He was murdered yesterday.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  He showed no anger.

  ‘We don’t know, but we’ll find out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I found his body in Hampstead.’

  ‘Hampstead! What was he doing there?’

  ‘We think he met his death elsewhere. I happened to be out with the dog late at night and found him.’

  ‘But why did they kill him? He was always a good son. Wouldn’t do anybody a bad turn. Always a gentleman. He got it from his mother, who was a class above me, but we got on happily together.’

  Littlejohn knew it well. He and Charles had passed time and talk together long ago when Charles was less adept at avoiding the police.

  The matron entered.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  Littlejohn nodded. It was far from right, but what else could he do?

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Blunt. Why don’t you both sit down and I’ll bring you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I don’t want to sit down. I’m better on my two feet. But thank you all the same.’

  ‘I’ll leave you together then. You’ll find me in the office if you need me.’

  ‘Where is Charles now? In the mortuary?’

  ‘You’ll be able to see him when you wish.’

  ‘I remember you, Mr. Littlejohn. You were always straight up and down.’

  He spoke with a North Country voice and idiom.

  ‘As I feel just now, I’d rather not see him. I’d rather remember him as I knew him best, happy and alive. You’ll see that he’s decently treated? The funeral and such, I mean. His mother’s buried in Tamworth. He ought to go there.…’

  ‘I’ll see to the arrangements, Mr. Blunt, and if you feel you can make the journey there I’ll go with you. Just let me know when you’ve made up your mind about things. Matron will get in touch with me.’

  ‘Why? That’s what I want to know. Why did somebody do this?’

  ‘Could you answer one or two questions?’

  ‘Why not? I want to help. I’ve not much time left myself, but I thought Charles would be here at the end. Now I’m left on my own. Not a single one left of those I knew.’

  He looked round blankly as though seeking comfort somewhere. Then he pulled himself together.

  ‘What did you want to know, Mr. Littlejohn?’

  ‘When did you last see Charles?’

  ‘On my birthday. The fourth of last month. I was 84. We had a laugh about it. Charles was 48. He never forgot my birthday, Mr. Littlejohn. Or to bring me some tobacco when he came.’

  ‘Did he say anything about what he was doing? Where he was living?’

  ‘No more than usual. He’d moved his flat again. I could never understand why a steady boy like Charles could never settle down properly. Why couldn’t he have married a nice girl and got a proper home of his own? He seemed to change his lodgings every six months. As far as I know, women didn’t appeal to him. I used to ask him why he didn’t settle. He’d say he wasn’t made that way.’

  ‘Did he give you his new address?’

  The old man took a card from his inside pocket and passed it across.

  ‘That’s the latest. I always have it on a postcard, so that if anything happened to me sudden-like they’d find it quickly and let Charles know. I promised him faithfully, as I always do, not under any circumstances to tell anybody where he’s living. He said he wanted one place, at least, where he could rest and be quiet without being disturbed. Now he’s dead, I reckon there’s no harm in telling you. You’ll have to know, won’t you?’

  Flat 5, Orchard Mansions, Tolham, Kent.

  ‘Tolham, wasn’t it, Mr. Littlejohn? Last year it was the West End. A flat in Curzon Street. He’d have found it a change out in Kent.

  ‘What did you talk about when he was last here?’

  ‘He didn’t say much about what he did with his time. He had a good job. A representative, he called it. Never short of money and always dressed well and looked after himself. He said the pay was good and he got commission as well as his salary. He was generous to me.’

  Then, as though the ice had broken and he had only just realised what had happened, the old man sagged, sat down in a chair and wept bitterly.

  Chapter 2

  The Watching Man

  The case of Charles Blunt had now passed from the district police to the C.I.D. Headquarters at Scotland Yard. There it fell under the supervision of Superintendent Cromwell, Littlejohn’s old friend and colleague, which made it easier for the Chief Superintendent to retain his interest in the affair. They discussed the case together.

  ‘The motive puzzles me,’ said Littlejohn, ‘Charles was a lone wolf when I knew him. I remember interviewing him here on the two cases of petty larceny on which we managed to arrest him. He was quiet and laconic in answering questions. Never wasted a word. We never managed to trace that he’d any associates, not even a fence for the goods he’d lifted. And, as far as I know, he never got mixed up with any gang. If this is a gang killing he must have trespassed on someone else’s preserves. But that’s not true to Charles’s form.’

  ‘I know, Tom. We’ve often suspected that he was working in the big stuff and thought he was at the bottom of several substantial jewellery robberies, but we’ve never been able to pin anything on him. We’ve searched his rooms and followed him about, but we’ve never caught him off the straight and narrow path. We’ve pulled him in and questioned him. He always replied civilly in his quiet monosyllabic fashion. And when we were sure he was connected with certain crimes he managed to evade us. I always felt a sneaking respect for him. And now somebody has killed him and
flung him by the roadside like a dead dog.’

  ‘I know, Bob. I used to admire him and his cool, polite, brief manner of answering questions. One couldn’t help liking his aplomb. He was quite a man. And the way he looked after his old father too. The old man gave me his address. It’s in Tolham. Now what would a townee like Charles want with a flat in Kent? We’d better go down there and see.…’

  Orchard Court was a small, very select block of flats, converted from a Victorian mansion on Tolham Common. It had been tastefully done and the flats had sold at high prices without delay. Littlejohn and Cromwell found the janitor, who appeared eagerly from somewhere in the well-kept grounds, somehow scenting that the visitors were from the police and anxious to become involved in the investigation.

  Cromwell introduced Littlejohn and himself.

  The man said his name was Pickup and he was handyman, janitor and security guard and whatever else they liked to call him in the flats. He had a long face with hollow cheeks, a large nose and a heavy projecting chin.

  ‘I saw all about the murder in the morning papers. Why anybody should want to kill pore Mr. Blunt I can’t for the life of me imagine. A nice civil gentleman who everybody liked. It’s no use trying to discover why people kill one another nowadays. I think they just do it for kicks, as they call it. This couldn’t have been anything but a hooligan job.…’

  Pickup was an ex-soldier, with a leg wound which made him limp. He walked with a rhythmic jerk as he accompanied the detectives from the main gate to his small office in the building.

  ‘Are you in charge here, Mr. Pickup?’

  ‘Sort of. Mr. Goshawk, the estate agent, is really the boss, but I’m the man on the spot. See? If there’s anything you’d like to know I’ll do my best to be of service.’

  ‘How long has Mr. Blunt been living here?’

  ‘Roughly, three months. He was lucky. You see, the Millers, who own the flat, went off to South Africa to see relatives. They’ll be away for six months. She’s a South African and the flat was let to Mr. Blunt for the time they was away. He was the first to arrive and ask for a flat here after the Millers put it on the books to let.’

  ‘Did you deal with the letting?’

  ‘Yes. Mr. Goshawk was away on a job and left me in charge. Mr. Blunt was a gentleman who knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted a flat overlooking the Common. As I said, he was lucky there. The Millers’ flat did that, and at the same time you get a fine view of the gardens of the house next door, a place called The Limes, owned by Mr. Havenith, an oil millionaire.’

  ‘We’d better take a look at the flat. Have you the key, Mr. Pickup?’

  Mr. Pickup said he had and would they please follow him.

  The hall was large and no expense had been spared by the developers. Marble floor, heavy mahogany doors, a double marble staircase with a gilded balustrade. Family portraits on the walls and a large illuminated aquarium in one corner with exotic fish sailing about in it. There was a lift discreetly tucked away, although there were only three storeys in all to the place. The whole had an opulent, sumptuous atmosphere and was as quiet as a tomb.

  ‘Is everybody out?’ asked Littlejohn.

  ‘No, sir. There’s nine flats in all. Each one h’insultated and soundproof. You’d expect that for flats costing forty or fifty thousand apiece, wouldn’t you? There’s plenty of money about in this establishment.’

  ‘What rent was Mr. Blunt paying?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred for the six months, in advance.’

  Littlejohn and Cromwell exchanged glances. Charles Blunt was getting on in the world. He must have been on something much bigger than whisky salesmanship before he died!

  They took the lift to the second floor.

  ‘Here we are.…’

  A broad thickly carpeted corridor with a heavy door on each side of it. Pickup produced a huge bunch of keys and sorted one out as he halted at one of them.

  ‘This is the late Mr. Blunt’s place. Of course, he rented it furnished. The furniture, fittings, etcetera belong to the Millers. Mr. Blunt must have got fond of this flat. He rarely went out.’

  ‘What was he doing all the time?’

  ‘Reading, smoking, enjoying the view from the balcony and windows.’

  ‘What sort of stuff did he read?’

  ‘Paperbacks and magazines. He seemed to like westerns. He used to throw them in the wastepaper basket when he’d read them and I took them to the local old people’s home.’

  ‘What kind of magazines?’

  ‘I’ve seen him reading them, but he never left those lying around. He must have taken them away with him to give to friends.’

  ‘You never saw what kind they were?’

  ‘I got a brief sight of them once or twice when I brought up his morning coffee. We’ve no restaurant here, but I make coffee in the middle of the morning and serve one or two of the flats with it.…’

  ‘And you got a glance at the magazines?’

  ‘They were the expensive, glossy, sort. The ones that deal with country matters, large houses in the country for sale, fashionable weddings, county shows and the comings and goings of the upper ten, you might say. You get the sort I mean, sir?’

  ‘We do. The sort of magazines that advertise jewellery, antiques and other expensive items?’

  ‘That’s it. Mr. Blunt must have come of a good family and been used to that sort of life. He must have been well off, to say the least of it, if he could afford even the rent of this place.’

  ‘Where did Mr. Blunt eat while he was here?’

  ‘Each of the flats has an excellent modern kitchen for those who prefer to dine at home. There’s one in this flat if you care to see it. Mr. B went mostly to nearby hotels. He asked me to recommend one or two and I was able to oblige. Sometimes he’d bring in some cold fare or even sandwiches and eat them here. He never used the kitchen for cooking. Just the fridge to hold milk and an odd bit of cold food. He never had any alcohol about the place.’

  They were then able to turn their attentions to the flat itself. It consisted of a large lounge with a dining alcove, two bedrooms, each with a dressing-room, a modern kitchen and a smaller box-room. Everything was of the de-luxe category. Nothing lacking for comfort, thick carpets, large comfortable modern furniture, antique tables and cabinets filled with expensive china. Hardly the home for a whisky salesman, as Cromwell remarked.

  Cromwell turned to Pickup.

  ‘Could you leave us here for a little time? We’d like to browse around and see if we can find anything that might help us in the case we’re on.’

  Pickup rubbed his chin.

  ‘You’ll bear in mind, sir, that I’m in a way responsible for the flat, Mr. Blunt having died and the place belonging to Mr. Miller …?’

  ‘I see your point. But I think you’ll agree that it is better, in the circumstances, for the Chief Superintendent and I to go quietly over everything, instead of a number of our men with a search warrant upsetting the place. We’ll hold ourselves responsible and will see that everything is left as we find it. Should anything turn up that we wish to take with us we’ll tell you and give you a receipt.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That will suit me. I’ll be in my office and will see you on your way out.’

  And with that he went about his business.

  Left to themselves, the two men calmly examined the room and its contents.

  ‘You wouldn’t think it was occupied by anyone, would you?’

  Cromwell was right. All was neat and tidy, the cushions of the chairs undisturbed, everything was in its place. Just as Gentleman Charles would have liked it. A man with a mania for tidiness who left things exactly as he found them.

  Blunt seemed to have brought a minimum of luggage with him. Littlejohn and Cromwell examined all the drawers and cabinets. In the wardrobe of the bedroom Charles had used there were hanging two suits, almost new, and on the bottom three pairs of black shoes meticulously polished. Black leather travelling slippers. In the drawers,
socks, handkerchiefs, half a dozen neatly-folded white shirts, two pairs of clean pyjamas. The laundry must have been despatched by the linen chute in the wall of the room, as there was none about, not even a soiled handkerchief

  There were two beds of the modern expensive brass variety in the room. Both were neatly made and ready. The whole place looked as if the Millers had gone and left it for sheeting until their return. There was no trace of active occupancy except the personal articles of clothing.

  There was an internal telephone on a bedside table along with the outside instrument. Cromwell lifted the internal one.

  ‘Hullo.’

  Pickup answered it.

  ‘Mr. Pickup, who looked after the cleaning of the rooms up here?’

  ‘Mrs. Whaley, sir. She does for a number of the owners. And a Mrs. Widdup does for the others. Why, isn’t it clean?’

  ‘Spotless. A really good job.’

  ‘She’s very good, sir. But she told me that she didn’t need to spend much time on Mr. Blunt. He never left any mess. In fact, she said, sometimes you wouldn’t think the flat was occupied. He seemed to tidy up himself as he went along. Very unusual, sir. Very unusual.’

  ‘That was Charles,’ said Cromwell to Littlejohn. ‘And that’s why we never caught him, although we often thought he was guilty. Charles could burgle a room and leave it looking exactly as he found it. His entry, the job, and his exit remind you of the invisible man.’

  ‘What was he doing here, though? Was he hiding from someone who was out to kill him?’

  ‘Why make it so expensive, though. This flat. Fifteen hundred in advance.…’

  Littlejohn lit his pipe. It seemed a pity to smoke it in Charles’s neat and tidy flat, but he felt he needed it.

  ‘Charles liked it that way. My guess is that he enjoyed the good and comfortable things of life and as his money ran out he did another of his invisible-man jobs and lived on the proceeds for another spell.’

  ‘But why waste time and energy on meticulously tidying-up wherever he lived?’

  ‘Discipline. His living and his freedom depended on leaving no trace. He kept up his method of work even when he was playing or resting, because one slip and we’d have had him.’