Murder Adrift Read online

  ‘What do you think about it all, Hopkinson?’

  ‘Hoppy’, a polite and thoughtful young man, wrinkled his forehead studiously.

  ‘The crime was presumably committed on board. It may have been, however, that it happened on land and the murderer took the body on the boat for disposal. Otherwise the dead man and his companion probably boarded the Mary Jane together at her moorings here. I wonder if anybody saw them?’

  Bradfield dismissed the idea with a jerk of his hand.

  ‘We’ve already made inquiries locally. So far, there seems to have been nobody on the waterfront when the Mary Jane left. Don’t forget, it was midnight. The harbour master was in his office at 10.30 and the boat was empty and tied-up in the river then.’

  Hopkinson nodded modestly and didn’t argue. But he scribbled a note in his pocket book to remind him to mention the matter to Littlejohn later. How thorough were the inquiries about casuals being on the waterfront, or even about the town, at the time the Mary Jane left? Any constable on patrol at the time? Advertise in local paper?

  Hopkinson daren’t ask Bradfield direct questions in case the Inspector took it as a slur on the local police. When he raised the points with Littlejohn later, he was told to seek answers to his questions himself and regard himself as responsible for that part of the inquiry.

  Meanwhile, Littlejohn thought they had talked enough about the case and was eager to get around the town and familiarise himself with the character and layout of the place. Bradfield was obviously anxious to get to headquarters in Portwich, where, it seemed, the absence of two senior officers had accelerated the rat-race among their juniors.

  ‘By the way, we’ve booked you rooms at the Trident Hotel. You’ll find it very good. A new place built since Fordinghurst became so popular as a yachting centre. It’s the best hotel in town. Shall I have your bags sent across?’

  ‘Hopkinson had better take them and see to things in the hotel. Is it far away?’

  ‘No. At the end of the waterfront past the swing bridge; a good spot and a nice outlook.’

  ‘Do that, then, Hopkinson, please, and then put the car in the police garage. I don’t suppose we’ll need it much. Wait for me in the hotel. I’ll take a walk round the town.’

  And the party broke up, Bradfield promising to call in the following morning.

  The newcomers had already been introduced to the local staff on duty, a sergeant, three constables and a cadet.

  ‘I feel comfortable with ’im,’ said Sergeant Keel talking about Littlejohn when he gathered his men together for a little pep-talk. And he told them he’d have his eye on them until the case was solved and woe betide them if they didn’t acquit themselves with credit.

  P.C. Gudgeon, who had lived in Fordinghurst all his life and whose father was head gardener at the Big House, as the residence of the widow Todd was locally known, was elected as adviser to the detectives on local matters and personnel.

  After he and Bradfield parted, Littlejohn strolled to the main square which was the hub of the town. It all reminded him of those little secluded towns in provincial France. The sun shining warmly, the heat rising from the pavements, the blue sky overhead and the smell of roasting coffee from the grocer’s shop hanging on the still air. News of his arrival seemed to have spread round the town and people he’d never seen before greeted him cheerfully, as though he’d lived among them all his life and they were confident that he would quickly solve their local problems and move the cloud of fear from the place.

  If Bradfield could have seen Littlejohn he’d have been surprised. The Chief Superintendent was looking casually in the shop windows as he passed along the main streets. He called in a tobacco shop which sold fishing tackle as well, and bought some tobacco. The owner asked him politely if he were the detective from London on the Todd case and Littlejohn told him that was right. The man wished him luck and gave him a souvenir box of matches. Then he told him that Heck Todd had been one of his customers and that he’d smoked a brand of cigarettes which were a special order.

  ‘Expensive brand. I guess I’ll be left with them now and have to smoke them myself. Heck was a man of taste who liked expensive living. A bit of a card, too, especially where the ladies were concerned. But everybody seemed to like him. Nobody wished him dead.’

  He finished mixing Littlejohn’s order, two ounces of light and one of dark tobacco, and handed it over. Later, he told quite a number of his regular customers of the purchase and some of them tried and approved of it. After that, he called it ‘Littlejohn’s Mixture’, and sold quite a lot of it.

  Chapter 2

  The Mayor of Fordinghurst

  When Littlejohn entered the Trident, Hopkinson was in the bar in earnest conversation with a man of about his own age, tall and gangling, wearing strong glasses and dressed in soiled flannel trousers and a sports coat, with leather repairs at the elbows and cuffs. They were drinking beer.

  There were several bars about the place, but this one was got up to resemble the wardroom of a ship and trimmed accordingly. It all looked a bit overdone. It was a wonder they didn’t dress up the waiters as sailors, but it hadn’t, as yet, been carried that far.

  The Trident was new and still smelt of fresh paint. It had been built mainly to accommodate the flood of amateur yachtsmen from miles around who found the once-neglected port excellent for their needs. The hotel was full to capacity with visitors all summer and even in winter when the good weather held.

  It was now within an hour of dinner time and all the bars were full of hearty shouting crowds of men dressed in all kinds of nautical wear, from brass buttons and white shoes to jerseys and gumboots. It was a place where the landsmen were mildly patronised or snubbed by the seagoing fraternity. The sensational news of murder and the arrival of Scotland Yard seemed to have brought most of the group ashore and for a fine sunny evening more boats than usual remained tied-up in the port.

  Littlejohn felt the need of a drink after the hot afternoon and made for the first bar. Hopkinson spotted him and brought his companion to meet him.

  ‘This is Rob Feltham, sir. We were at school together. He’s a reporter on the Portwich Observer . . . ’

  ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’ said Feltham, as he shook hands.

  ‘I’ve just been arranging the notice in the paper about anyone who was in the neighbourhood of the port late on the night of the crime, sir’.

  Hopkinson was sparkling with enthusiasm for his job. He’d obviously told Feltham he was assisting the Chief Superintendent and looked as if he’d already quite a lot to tell Littlejohn when they were alone together.

  Feltham was out for a scoop before the ‘London lot’, as he called his Fleet Street competitors, arrived. As representative of several London and provincial papers he had already made his report to them, but the case was now important enough to bring the staff men down to Fordinghurst.

  ‘Any progress so far, sir?’

  ‘We haven’t started on the case yet.’

  Hopkinson looked a bit crestfallen. He had been singing Littlejohn’s praises to his friend and his chief’s empty-handed return was disappointing.

  Feltham looked round at the milling throng of drinking men.

  ‘This is the obvious place for meeting the characters in the case. Everybody who’s anybody in the social scale or the sailing lot comes here sooner or later.’

  ‘The characters . . .?’

  Littlejohn was obviously in the public eye and the news had got round where he was drinking. The customers surrounding the bar kept watching him, sizing him up and wondering whether or not to offer him a drink. Now and then a new face would peer into the room and then join the crowd.

  ‘I mean the characters connected with Heck Todd and his friends. Suspects, if you like to call them that.’

  Feltham was self-consciously aware that everybody was eyeing him, too. He almost told them to read all about it in his column in the next morning’s Observer. He took his courage in both hands. />
  ‘I wonder, Chief Superintendent, if you and Hoppy would care to take dinner here with me tonight?’

  Littlejohn didn’t relish the idea at all. Feltham was the limpet type and, once familiar, might need a lot of getting rid of. All the same, he was a pal of Hopkinson who would be gratified if he agreed.

  ‘Thanks . . . But you’ll be our guest tonight.’

  Feltham beamed. The expenses side of the matter was all that worried him and now that was solved.

  ‘Delighted!! Thanks a lot.’

  Littlejohn left the young men together and went to his room, had a shower and telephoned to his wife. By that time dinner was served.

  The dining-room, decorated with the portraits of ships and mariners, was full. Almost at a glance you could pick out the important customers. Feltham pointed out the mayor.

  ‘That’s Pollitt, the mayor, sitting there in the corner to your right. The man with him is Poston. He’s a millionaire who arrived in his yacht this afternoon. . . .’

  The fawning attention being paid by the waiters, in short white coats, like ships’ stewards, to the two men had already led Littlejohn to guess as much. The mayor kept glancing in Littlejohn’s direction as though trying to make up his mind about something. Finally, after a word with his guest, he rose and crossed the room to Littlejohn. He was a small, portly, baby-faced man, all smiles. He bounced across the floor.

  ‘Excuse me. Name’s Pollitt, mayor of Fordinghurst. Are you Chief Superintendent Littlejohn? I’ve heard quite a lot about you and I’m very glad such a distinguished detective has been put in charge of the Todd affair. A sorry business. I just wanted to bid you welcome to our town and to say that if I could be of any help you mustn’t hesitate to call on me. . . . ’

  Littlejohn couldn’t get a word in edgeways. All eyes were turned in his direction and the mayor was well aware of it. He wanted badly to invite Littlejohn to his table, but Pollitt was a builder and Poston was discussing the erection of a super-bungalow in the vicinity.

  ‘We’ve almost finished our meal, otherwise I’d have invited you to join us at our table. . . . ’

  Littlejohn introduced Hopkinson to him. He apparently knew Feltham and gave him a short nod, as though he was small fry.

  ‘Are they looking well after you here . . .?’

  The mayor glanced round the table and finding the meal not yet spread snapped his fingers at the head waiter who almost took wings to get there.

  ‘Albert . . . This is Chief Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard. Look well after him . . . ’

  Albert assured the mayor that he would do so and at once set a number of his underlings in motion to prepare for and serve the meal. They bustled about and laid an extraordinary cavalcade of plates about the table.

  The mayor shook hands with Littlejohn again.

  ‘You’re staying here? I’ll get in touch with you, sir. We must dine together very shortly. . . . Pleased to meet you . . . ’

  He bounced back to his table, well satisfied with the impression he thought he’d created on the rest of the assembly.

  Feltham looked put-out. He resented being given short shrift.

  ‘Pompous ass. . . . You’d think he was Lord Mayor of London.’

  The meal began. The Trident specialised in sea foods and Albert recommended fresh prawns and then local salmon. This was followed by Baba au Rhum and Littlejohn was sure that had they dared they’d have included fish in the sweet as well. As it was, the rum added yet another nautical touch. As the meal progressed, Feltham recovered his high spirits.

  ‘If there’s anything you want to know about the town or locality, just say the word. I spend half my working time in Fordinghurst and there’s not much goes on that I don’t know about.’

  He cast an eye around the dining-room.

  ‘Some of the things I could tell you about one or two of those here tonight would surprise you . . .’

  ‘Let’s confine ourselves to the case we have in hand, shall we? Tell us something about the Todd family.’

  They had reached the coffee stage and Feltham had ordered a brandy for himself. He made a pantomime of warming the balloon glass in his hands, swinging the liquid round and round and sniffing at it. Then he took a sip like a hen drinking, and made a chupping noise.

  ‘That’s an easy one. Do you want the lot from old man Ephraim’s time?’

  ‘Yes; start at the beginning.’

  There was so much noise going on in the room as the drinks warmed up the diners that the trio at Littlejohn’s table had to lean forward to hear one another, like a group of plotters.

  ‘I’ll make it brief. I’ll have to be getting along. Won’t do to let the grass grow under my feet at a time like this, will it? Old Ephraim Todd, father of the dead man, started here as a young man and kept a pub on the waterfront. It has been pulled down to make room for the crane they erected to handle container traffic. That was before my time, of course. From selling beer Ephraim turned to merchanting wine. I’ve no doubt he got his start by smuggling. Quite a lot used to go on here.’

  He waved his hand, taking in the lot in a gesture.

  ‘He imported in bulk and bottled and blended it and delivered it in the neighbourhood at first. Then his business grew, he left the pub and transferred himself to a warehouse behind the quay. He was on a good thing and he grew rich and extended his works and plant and bought a big house on the fringe of the town. His wife and Ken, who’s a bachelor, live there still, and Heck with his family occupied a flat there on an upper floor. A big barn of a place, with several acres of trees and parkland round it. It was built by a local man who went to Australia and made a fortune in the gold rush. Ephraim married quite above his class. She was a good-looking, dashing girl; the daughter of the Dean of Portwich. They eloped; there was a hell of a row, and a sensation locally. They had two sons and Ephraim died when they were just boys. His wife changed her way of life after that and became serious, took over the business and made a real go of it. She’s still alive, in her eighties, and until a few years ago remained boss of the company and dominated her two sons, especially Ken. Ken’s a good business man and has increased the turnover and added to the family fortunes. Heck was another matter. He revolted against the tyranny of his mother and kicked over the traces. He was in the firm and, as often happens to black sheep, his mother liked him the best. She got him out of a few scrapes, mostly with women. He was a petticoat chaser. Fast cars and fast women. Everybody liked him, though. He had a way with him. . . .’

  Feltham looked at his watch.

  ‘Nine o’clock! I’ll have to be getting along. I’d like you to read an article I once wrote about the Todd family. It didn’t wash any dirty linen, of course, but it will give you an idea of the family background. I’ll bring a copy with me tomorrow. I must confess this case has got me baffled. I can’t think of anybody who’d want to murder Heck even if he did damage the reputation of certain women in the locality. After all, there’s always one or two rips in every town, but they don’t get murdered for it, do they?’

  He looked straight at Littlejohn with earnest bleary eyes.

  The room was almost empty now and the waiters were busy clearing up the tables. One or two diners looked ready to pause and speak to Littlejohn as they passed, but seeing Feltham decided against it. It was obvious the reporter was the local gas-bag whom they seemed to wish to avoid.

  Littlejohn realised that the meeting with Feltham had been a flop. He was either keeping back information for his professional purposes or else he hadn’t much idea about the case and hoped to pump the police for his copy.

  Littlejohn was just ready to break up the party when two newcomers entered. Feltham got excited.

  ‘That’s Ken Todd and Richards, his lawyer. Shall I introduce you before I go?’

  ‘No, thanks. This is hardly the time. We’ll not keep you from your duties. . . . ’

  Feltham looked disappointed. This might have been a chance of some good information. Littlejohn wa
s on his feet.

  ‘Give your friend a drink at the bar,’ he said to Hopkinson, ‘and I’ll attend to the bill here. . . . ’

  He jerked his head commandingly at Hopkinson who steered Feltham out. Littlejohn sat back and surveyed the wreck of the feast.

  Well, well.

  The mayor was peering round the dining-room door. He must have got rid of his client and was hunting for Littlejohn to give him another welcome to Fordinghurst. He had been drinking at the bar and was very convivial. His bounce had left him, and he needed to steer a steady course. On his way he suddenly came upon Ken Todd and his companion, starting on a belated first course. He tottered uncertainly and then made for their table. Littlejohn watched him shaking Todd by the hand and whispering what must have been condolences.

  Littlejohn tried to make a quiet exit, but Mayor Pollitt was not going to miss this chance.

  ‘Chief Superintendent!’ he piped in his reedy voice. ‘Allow me . . . ’

  It should have been a dramatic meeting between Littlejohn and the dead man’s brother. Instead it was comic. The mayor, half drunk, behaving as though they were already attending the funeral, and Ken Todd and his friend, disturbed at their business, glaring at the mayor for intruding and then looking half-apologetically at Littlejohn, as though assuring him that they weren’t to blame for the scene. They were obviously discussing matters arising from the death of Heck.

  The mayor prattled away as if life and death depended on what he was saying.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Chief Inspector . . . beg pardon, Chief Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard. We were determined that you should have the best brains in the country for this sad case. . . .’

  Kenneth Todd ignored the mayor, who looked from one to the other of them smiling awkwardly wondering, in a fuddled sort of way, what he’d done wrong.

  ‘Glad to meet you, Littlejohn. . . . ’

  He gave him a long cold hand.

  He introduced his companion.

  ‘Glyn Richards, my lawyer. . . . ’

  Todd was tall and lean, with a long serious face, already lined, and thin grey hair. He looked more cut out for an ascetic priest than a wine merchant. His companion was younger, tall, florid, with a close-shaven lip and the side-whiskers of an old-fashioned coachman or butler.