The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 2

  First of all, Benny Judge hotly denied that his brother was a spiv. He asked for a definition of the strange term, denying that he had ever heard it before. On receiving a somewhat halting explanation from a police sergeant, he indignantly repudiated the epithet. Sammy was an honest, hard-working merchant, who sold goods on open markets and always took the necessary number of clothing coupons for them when regulations required them. He said he had no idea what Sammy had been up to at Fennings’ Mill on the night of the crime, but that they could take it from him it must have been honest and above board.

  Inspector Faddiman was a thoroughgoing officer and left no stone unturned in the investigation. He found out from Fennings that, after a meticulous stocktaking consequent upon the occurrence of the mysterious crime on their premises, they had discovered their stock was light by several thousands of pounds. At first they pooh-poohed the suggestion that Ambrose Barrow was responsible for the losses. He had been with them since he left school and had, by steady, faithful service, risen from office boy to be the secretary of the company. But later, a closer examination of the stock-books revealed alterations in the figures. The books were locked up in a safe to which only Barrow and two of the directors held the keys. It looked, therefore, that Ambrose was the culprit. Why should the directors steal their own stock? They were both wealthy men, brothers whose integrity, to say the least of it, was unquestioned.

  It looked as though Barrow had been quietly selling the shirtings to underground markets and that Sammy Judge was one of the receivers. Posing as a remnant dealer, he could easily dispose of the spoils.

  Faddiman went all over the town, questioning Barrow’s friends, associates and casuals who might have seen him about the mill after hours. Nothing. In the mill, among the hands, he also met with a blank. Some of them might have been implicated in the robberies. If they were, they kept their mouths shut and behaved above suspicion.

  So Faddiman found himself facing an unanswerable question. Who killed Ambrose Barrow? And why, in heaven’s name, was he disguised? The source of the grease-paint and moustache was easily found. Barrow was producer or something to the dramatic society at the church. He had taken the materials from the make-up box. His idea presumably was to make himself unrecognisable if anyone saw him entering or leaving the mill at unusual hours.

  Finally, Sammy Judge recovered sufficiently to tell a more or less coherent tale. He had, from time to time, purchased what he called remnants from the mill. They had been delivered to him at the warehouse on Saturday nights after the market closed. Nothing wrong with that, was there? It was a perfectly normal transaction for spot cash. On the night in question Sammy had called for his usual bundle and found Barrow lying hideously dead in the warehouse. He went off his head again, protesting his honesty and innocence when the police pressed him for details and they had to shut him up in his room.

  Faddiman was inclined to believe Sammy’s story. The little spiv’s physique precluded his ever succeeding in strangling a man of Barrow’s size and strength. Judge was therefore retained under lock and key pending his recovery, which was very convenient, for they couldn’t properly charge him even with theft, to say nothing of murder, without fuller evidence.

  Barrow was a married man and his wife was prominent in local circles. She took the blow badly but could give no help in solving the problem. Her husband often went to the mill after hours. That was natural. He was heart and soul in his job. She could offer no explanation of his make-up at the time of his death. It must have been put on at the office, she said, for she had never even seen the grease-paint and whiskers at home.

  A month passed and the police were no nearer. Inspector Faddiman had to confess himself beaten.

  Then, Sammy Judge hanged himself on his braces and, to mend matters, the local newspaper in an ambiguous account of the inquest, somehow gave the impression that the spiv’s guilty, murderous conscience had caused the suicide. Benny Judge sued them for libel.

  The Chief Constable, almost as demented by events as the deceased spiv, sent for Scotland Yard.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE WOMAN IN THE PILL-BOX HAT

  “DON’T look round,” said Inspector Faddiman to Littlejohn after he got out of the train and they had shaken hands. “There’s a woman followed me here and I think she’s after you. Mrs. Barrow, wife of the murdered man.…”

  She was standing under the bridge leading from the up to the down line, patiently waiting, her eyes on the two officers, her long fingers screwing a handkerchief into a ball. She had a fixed purpose in mind and ignored all the bustle and noise going on around her. She was tall, dark and slim, dressed in black from head to foot. Coat and skirt, shoes, gloves and even black stockings. Her hat was like a tall, inverted black pill-box. A good-looking woman but pale and strained from grief and worry.

  Muttering to himself, Faddiman took Littlejohn’s bag and they elbowed their way through the crowd. Mrs. Barrow followed, leaving the astonished ticket-collector with his hand outstretched for her ticket without even so much as a platform-ticket or a look in his direction.

  Mrs. Barrow caught them up on the sloping station approach. She ignored Faddiman.

  “You’re the man from Scotland Yard, aren’t you?”

  It was very embarrassing. Passers-by were turning to look at the new arrival. Already the news had gone round like wildfire that a Scotland Yard Inspector was taking over the spiv case.

  Now there looked like being a scene as well.

  “My mother and I want to offer you the hospitality of our home while you’re here. After all, you’ve come to clear my late husband’s name. It’s the least we can do.… And the local hotels are so poor.…”

  She was calm and unmoved by the situation. She’d a set purpose in mind and nothing was going to deflect her from it.

  Faddiman was still muttering to himself.

  “Look here, Mrs. Barrow, please don’t pester us any more. I’ve already told you we’re doing our best and there’s no good will come from you interfering. I’ve booked a room for the Inspector at The Queen Anne.…”

  Faddiman was getting ratty. The woman was never off the doorstep of the police station, worrying him and asking for progress in clearing her husband’s name and finding his murderer. She’d even been after the Chief Constable and caused a scene at a house-party he was giving. The local M.P., too, got a letter from her three times a week. It was sickening.…

  They were walking three-abreast down the narrow, cobblestoned main street. The woman was almost trotting to keep up with the regulation strides of the two Inspectors, both of whom were flushed with embarrassment. Littlejohn was torn between listening to Mrs. Barrow’s arguments, taking in the atmosphere of the one-eyed town, and turning over in his mind the idea of where he was going to lodge.

  They still had tumbledown, rattling old trams running through the place, there was a boiler-shop riveting like mad somewhere nearby, and there was a noisy open-air market in progress on a square off the main street. You couldn’t hear yourself speak for the hullaballoo. Littlejohn, on the outside of the pavement, could just see Faddiman’s and the woman’s mouths opening and closing contentiously. People passing were all eyes and kept pointing at them. Littlejohn felt like breaking away at the next pub and having a drink, leaving the pair of them to thrash it out.

  The woman wasn’t going to give in. She followed them into the police station and through to Faddiman’s office. She was very composed about it all, but firm, and, after she’d stated her case, by insulting the cooking, service, proprietor, customers and morals of The Queen Anne, there didn’t seem to be any alternative but to accept her offer.

  It was amazing. Littlejohn couldn’t help admiring the grit of Mrs. Barrow. Right in the lion’s den, too. Faddiman was a formidable opponent. He looked like a policeman. He wasn’t far from retiring age and was tall, impressive, grey haired and authoritative. His small grey moustache bristled with determination. But the woman stuck it out.

  She must
have been about thirty-five. She was tall and big-boned, but instead of putting on weight as such people usually do later in life, she had kept lithe and slim. Her clothes were obviously the handiwork of a small-town tailor. “Mourning orders within twenty-four hours.…” Properly turned-out, she would have been quite distinguished and attractive. And the pill-box hat was just ridiculous. She had rather a long, delicate face, and this, topping the lot, elongated it still further to an absurd degree. Littlejohn prided himself a bit on his taste in ladies’ hats. This one took the biscuit.…

  “Could you send the Inspector’s bag round, then?”

  She gave an address to Faddiman, who almost blew up. There was no limit to her nerve!

  Littlejohn was sick of it and thought it best to intervene.

  “Very good of you, Mrs. Barrow, I’m sure, but I must be independent during this investigation. I can’t very well stay at the home of the murdered man, can I…?”

  “And why not? There’s every reason why you should. I could help. You are working on his side, aren’t you?”

  This sort of thing could go on for ever!

  “Definitely, Mrs. Barrow. But you must appreciate that I must be free to choose my own lodgings and operate as I wish.…”

  “And there was a nice beefsteak for your tea, too. I got it specially from the butchers.…”

  “I’ll bet you did,” thought Littlejohn and, at length, finding himself alone with the now speechless Faddiman, he relieved his feelings in roars of laughter.

  Faddiman didn’t think it funny at all.

  “I’m fed up with that damned woman. Never been off our doorstep since the case opened. I’m sure if she’d known your name beforehand, she’d have come up to London to fix things up before you left. Did you want to stay at her place?”

  “Not on your life.…”

  All the same, it might have had its advantages. A lot of inside atmosphere and information. Freedom from the small-town “commercial”. And there was a nice beefsteak for his tea.…

  But it just couldn’t be done.

  • • • • • • •

  The police constable took Littlejohn’s bag to The Queen Anne. He walked self-consciously, carrying his load with ease and looking a bit put-out. He wasn’t used to being a porter.…

  The street descended sharply to the town centre. Then, there was a stone bridge beneath which sped a river in spate. The water boiled and swished round the piers of the arches, carrying branches of trees and other rubbish with it. The constable’s nose began to run and he furtively wiped it on the back of his hand. People followed with their eyes the progress of the two policemen, turning round in the street and peeping from shop-windows and doors.

  The hotel was near the centre of the town. A poor sort of place, badly in need of a coat of paint and with a gloomy interior. The landlord, at the sight of the new arrivals, detached himself from a party of playboys drinking at the bar and greeted them. He was a small, fat, middle-aged man, with a bald head, a large moustache waxed to points, and an aggressive air born of lack of confidence. He was in his shirt sleeves.

  “We’ll do our best to make you comfortable.…”

  He spoke from one side of his mouth as though imparting a secret.

  “And by the way, had Mrs. Barrow been after you, sir, trying to get you to stop with her…?”

  “She did offer hospitality.… Why?”

  “She’s been round here, sir. Told me you weren’t coming after all. Good as implied the place wasn’t good enough for you. She’s got a nerve. It was always good enough for her till she got married to Barrow. Then she got big ideas about herself.…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She used to come here with her boy friends regular at one time. Quite one of the girls of the town in her day was Flo. Harrison. That was her name before she wed Barrow.”

  “What did she do in those days?”

  “Secretary to the mayor of the town. Corporation official. Fancied herself, too. Came across Barrow when Mr. Fenning was mayor. Barrow being secretary of the mill and her being secretary of the millowner, they got quite a lot together. Though why she married him, I don’t know. She could have done better, for she was a good-looker and no mistake.”

  “What sort of a man was Barrow?”

  “I’d describe him as a bit of a nonentity myself. Though I didn’t know much about him. He came here sometimes to dinners but wasn’t what you’d call a regular client, like.”

  “Why were you surprised at his marrying Flo. Harrison, did you say she was called…?”

  “Yes. Weeeell, can’t hardly put my finger on it. Let’s say she wasn’t his sort.”

  The landlord looked uneasy and eager to get away. There seemed to be something he didn’t care to say. The arrival of a customer relieved the situation.

  “Good afternoon, sir.…”

  The landlord was all over the man. Littlejohn tried to size up the newcomer.

  He wasn’t the small-town type at all. Tall, well-setup, with a head of curly grey hair and a fine, aquiline, clean-shaven face. He stood out among the local ragtag and bobtail drinking round the bar and they immediately became deferential.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Fenning.…”

  So this was Fenning!

  He moved among the crowd with ease, almost grace, compared with their own gaucheries. Neither his suit nor his accent were local products. He’d been well-educated somewhere and you could tell it as soon as he entered the place.

  “The usual, please, Spencer.”

  He had a word for everyone, kindly but not familiar. The sort you wouldn’t take any liberties with.

  “How’s your mother, Mary?”

  That was for the barmaid.

  “Better, sir, thank you. She’ll be about in a day or two.”

  “I’m glad.…”

  The landlord handed Fenning a glass of sherry.

  Littlejohn asked for the same. The landlord gave him a dirty look.

  “It’s all right, Spencer. No need to keep it all for me.”

  It was excellent sherry, too. Fenning smiled at Littlejohn.

  “Like it? Spencer gets it specially for me. By the way, you aren’t by any chance the detective from Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Forgive the curiosity. I’m as big a gossip as the rest. It’s all round the town you’re here.…”

  “Yes, I seem to have caused a bit of commotion.”

  “Well, I hope you meet with success. The Barrow case has certainly baffled our own men. I wish you well.… And now I must be off.…”

  With a wave of the hand to them all, Fenning hurried to the expensive black coupé standing in front of the pub and drove off.

  “So that’s Mr. Fenning, Spencer? He’s got good taste in sherry, to say the least of it.”

  “Yes, sir. A proper toff. Got good taste in a lot more things, too. He’s given a few good pictures to the local art gallery. Not that many goes to see them, but there they are.”

  “A local man? I mean, born in the neighbourhood?”

  “Yes. Family’s lived here for generations. Fine place they have just outside the town. But Mr. Andrew’s father saw to it that his sons knew a bit about the world before they settled down at the mills. They was educated at public schools and Oxford and then went abroad a lot. Look at Mr. Andrew, now. Well-groomed, smart, good-mannered. You know as soon as he comes in he wants the best and nothin’ else’ll do.”

  “And Mrs. Barrow was his secretary?”

  “Yes.…”

  The landlord laughed wheezily.

  “Yes. He wanted the best there, too, and saw that he got it. She was the best-looking girl in the town when he took her on. But she was a bit poor class. No taste or style.…”

  “And Mr. Fenning soon put that right.…”

  “He did. Though to see her now, you’d hardly believe it. Since Barrow was killed she’s been dressed in black. I guess she thinks she ought to pipe down a bit in view of all t
he circumstances. But before, she was the classiest girl in town.”

  “Yes? And yet she married Barrow, who, you say hadn’t much about him.”

  “Well, she could hardly marry Mr. Andrew, could she? He’s married already. Not that we see much of Mrs. Fenning. She won’t live here and has a flat in London and goes in for a good time. I wonder what Mr. Andrew thinks when he sees Flo. in her mourning get-up. I bet he thinks she’s slipped a bit.…”

  The landlord laughed another spiteful, wheezy laugh.

  Wretched little runt, thought Littlejohn, who’d taken a bit of a fancy for Fenning.

  “Did Mr. Fenning and Flo. get about a lot together, then?”

  “Yes, quite a bit before she married Barrow. All the town knew about it, but everybody disliked Mrs. Fenning for calling Brockfield an awful dump and refusing to be seen in it. So they didn’t mind. But the thing stopped being free-and-easy, like, after she married. This is a small town and however much you carry on on the Q.T., you mustn’t do it in public. Get me?”

  “Yes, I get you.”

  “I think Flo. and Mr. Andrew was always straight and above board. And they’ve kept it so. The Fennings was Barrow’s employers and he had a good job with them. I’ve heard of him and Flo. dining at the Hall quite a lot. I wonder what Barrow felt like among all that silver and cut-glass, with the fine pictures on the walls and priceless old furniture. I’ve been up there a time or two. It’s lovely. I guess Mr. Andrew educated Flo. up to that standard, but as for Barrow.… I bet he was a fish out of water and no mistake. You’d only to see the way he wore his clothes to know that. He once came here in a dinner-suit. Somebody mistook him for a waiter.…”