The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 4

  The room was in darkness, except for the stage which was brightly lit and full of activity. They were soon to give Hamlet in modern dress. A tall young man was occupied in alternately dealing with the gravediggers and quarrelling with the producer. The latter was sitting just below the stage on a chair tilted on two legs and was in a perpetual state of convulsion. Now waving his arms, now yelling abuse or instruction, or again mounting the stage in a single bound and excitedly showing them all how to do it.

  The gathering seemed divided into two parts. One lot of earnest actors sat silent and immersed in their art, waiting their turns; the other formed a clique of frolicking chatterers whom the producer kept abusing and ordering to shut up without much effect.

  One pretty dark-haired girl, cast for Ophelia in a blond wig, was flirting and displaying herself among a group of young bloods, some of whom pounced upon her and pawed her from time to time without being rebuffed. A sort of mass courtship. Like a lot of dogs.…

  “What’s he want?” somebody said in a loud affected voice as Littlejohn entered. The rehearsals were private and the show was to be sprung as a surprise on the lucky people of Brockfield.

  Somebody found Penelope, who was not in the play, but busy preparing tickets, and brought her to the Inspector. On her way she gathered up a forlorn-looking man who had been sitting alone, apparently meditating in the dark. Penelope Allen had just been married and this was Cuthbert, the lucky one.

  It was difficult to see properly in the dim light at the back of the hall, but Mrs. Allen was grotesquely dressed. Arty-crafty—livid jumper, with weals across it which reminded you of astigmatism, homespun shapeless skirt, Russian boots and a belt decorated with horse-brasses. The latter was her own idea.…

  Cuthbert was taking the ghost in Hamlet and he looked the part. He was tall and pale, he sagged from the waist and wore a limp thin moustache on his Slavonic face. He had glasses, too, in heavy black frames, and couldn’t see a foot without them. This was a source of great anxiety to the producer, for you couldn’t very well have a ghost in spectacles and Mr. Allen’s brief part therefore, was a kind of game of blind-man’s buff. In his worst nightmares, Mr. Blight, the producer, saw the ghost walking right off the stage and mingling dimly with the audience on the night of the show.

  Penelope interviewed Littlejohn in a corner and in whispers. Cuthbert stood patiently by, like a camel, and whether or not he was taking it all in, he alone knew. He seemed stunned, as though weeks ago somebody had knocked him on the head and he had suddenly recovered consciousness to find himself tied to Penelope for life.

  “Did Mr. Barrow take an active interest in the society?” asked Littlejohn.

  Mrs. Allen was a curious shape. A long body of tightly braced bones, with no waistline; thin legs with huge feet; square, flat face; pink-and-white, good complexion; and a little nose like a snout. Her eyes were blue and grew round with innocence at the time when she fired her most deadly shafts.

  “My husband,” she said, introducing the ghost to Littlejohn.

  “Yes,” said Cuthbert, like a schoolboy answering roll-call.

  “Yes, Mr. Barrow was interested, but only in the music. He ran a tiny orchestra which played between the acts. He used to call at rehearsals from time to time. Mr. Blight,… that’s our producer, the man on the chair, there… Mr. Blight is keen on the right music and of course, they got together.…”

  The voice purred on and on.

  “Didn’t they, darling?”

  “Yes,” said the ghost.

  “Had he any particular friends here?”

  The purring stopped, the large blue eyes sought Littlejohn’s face.

  “What do you mean, Inspector?”

  The tone of the voice was enough. The jovial cat getting ready for the mouse.

  “I mean, I’m anxious to know all I can about Mr. Barrow and his interests. Had he any particular friends in this society who can tell me something about them?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. He was a great friend of Mr. Menstone, the tall one over there by the dark girl. She’s the younger sister of Miss Lackland, who was violinist in the little orchestra. They might be able to tell you something. Eh, darling?”

  The ghost didn’t respond.

  “Darling!!”

  “Yes.”

  There was an intermission in the rehearsal and the chattering groups were now at it fortissimo. They spoke a language of their own. Everything was “wizard,” “smashing,” “dim,” “lousy,” or “putrid.” And their ways of life seemed to consist of “beetling,” “stooging,” “staggering,” “waffling” and “blowing.” Like talking in code!

  Mr. Blight was trying to tell the first gravedigger how to do it. A tall fellow with projecting teeth shook hands over his head in approval of Hamlet and shouted “Wizard prang!”

  “Mr. Barrow was very friendly with Miss Lackland, the one in the band, I mean, not our one.…”

  The purring and the large blue eyes came into operation again.

  “Who’s in charge of the make-up here, Mrs. Allen?”

  “Mr. Liptrot, the one with the producer. He’s good.”

  “Where’s Penelope?” bawled somebody.

  “Here. I’m just busy. Won’t be long.”

  Nobody seemed particularly interested in Littlejohn and his affairs. There were so many interviews of one kind and another going on in dark corners. One more or less didn’t make much difference.

  “Were you rehearsing on the night Mr. Barrow met his death?”

  “No. There was something on at the church and we couldn’t hire the hall. Damn’ shame. Beastly of them. As if we wanted to go to their hymn-singing.…”

  “Does Mr. Liptrot keep the make-up box himself?”

  “Yes.…”

  “Perhaps I’d better have a word with him. Do you mind sending him to me, please?”

  “Don’t you want me any more?”

  The voice was plaintive. No doubt, Mrs. Allen knew quite a lot more and could surmise even more than that. Still, that wouldn’t be evidence, and may be she was on her guard with the police.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll tell Reggie then.… Come on, dearest.…”

  “Yes.”

  They faded out and materialised again in the middle of the group surrounding Miss Lackland. Penelope, in their own idiotic patois, told Reggie to “toddle along and bow-wow” with Littlejohn, and gave the rest the “gen”. All eyes turned in the Inspector’s direction. A tall, fair-haired youngster, with huge nose and a quiff over one eye, detached himself with apparent reluctance and ambled, hands in pockets, to Littlejohn. He looked like a toucan.

  “Did you want me, sir?”

  “You Mr. Menstone?”

  “Yes.…”

  “I’m in charge of the Barrow murder case.”

  “Still at it?”

  “If you like to put it that way, yes. I’m trying to find out something about Mr. Barrow’s movements before his death. Can you help me?”

  “In what way?”

  “You were his friend, I gather?”

  “Yes. I was one of his pupils. Perhaps his favourite pupil.”

  He said it facetiously.

  “You were familiar with his movements?”

  “Some of them. He taught me music and now and then I played the church organ for him when he wanted a break.”

  “You attended his choir rehearsals?”

  “At odd times. By way of experience and out of regard for him. I don’t go to the church, nor am I in the choir.”

  Menstone didn’t look straight at you when he spoke, but over your left shoulder. As though you had a wraith by your side.

  “Jolly good show,” yelled somebody to Hamlet and the producer gave the signal for a start again by shouting “Break it up and get crackin’.”

  Penelope could be seen leading Cuthbert off to play his ghost. The rest of the gang muttered and giggled derisively.…

  “Look, Mr. Menstone. I’m anxious to find out who ki
lled Ambrose Barrow. I want to know all about him. Did he get on well with his wife?”

  “Nothing like putting it straight,” said Menstone to the wraith. “No, he didn’t. Couldn’t expect him to. Everybody was surprised when he married her. Poles apart.…”

  “In what way?”

  “This is a bit embarrassing, you know. I shouldn’t be talking like this of a dead friend.…”

  “He was strangled, remember.”

  “I’m not forgetting, sir. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have got a word out of me. To cut a long story short, Barrow was always a decent sort of bloke. A bit potty on his music, that’s all. Wrapped up in it, in fact. His wife, Flo., on the other hand, didn’t know one note from another. Didn’t want to, either.”

  “Still, that’s not enough.…”

  “I know, I know. But Flo. was a high-flyer. Liked a good time with the boys, spent above her husband’s income, and her name was mud among the decent folk of this town before she married Ambrose. Got among a crowd much above her and tried to ape their ways.”

  “The Fenning lot?”

  “I’m saying nothing about who. You must get that elsewhere. I’m not mixing myself in it.…”

  “You may have to if you’ve got the information, Mr. Menstone. The inquest was only adjourned. You might find yourself in the box making a statement in public under oath.…”

  “I don’t care. I won’t be bullied.”

  “Nobody’s trying to bully you. Was Barrow fond of the ladies?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’ve nothing more to say.”

  “Very well. Please ask Miss Lackland to have a word with me.”

  “Here, if you think.…”

  “Do as I ask you, please.”

  Menstone went and brought Miss Lackland, somewhat to the consternation of her many vociferous admirers, and stayed beside her with Littlejohn.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Lackland, but I’m investigating the death of Mr. Barrow. He was a great friend of your sister’s, I believe.…”

  The girl was good-looking and knew it. Oval face, clear complexion, fine dark hair, a straight nose and large brown eyes. She fixed the eyes on Littlejohn in studied appeal. With this lot, thought Littlejohn, you don’t know when they’re putting on an act and when they’re not. Better at the police-station in the cold light of day.

  “I won’t have her bullied,” said Menstone to the invisible man on Littlejohn’s left.

  “Thanks, Alex.…”

  Had Littlejohn only known it, he’d just played cupid. Vera Lackland had been wondering which to take of the eight doglike admirers who pursued her everywhere. Alex’s bravery in the face of police, tipped the beam. Vera felt she’d be safe for life with Alex. They were engaged by week-end!

  “Mr. Barrow was a friend of your elder sister?”

  Vera recovered from the first shock of Eros’s arrow.

  “Yes. She played in his quartette.…”

  “I’d like a word with her sometime.”

  Alex edged closer to Littlejohn, as though about to fight to the death for Vera and all her relations. Littlejohn took it all in with a wry smile. He wondered whether Alex would strike the first blow at him or at the fellow on the left.

  “The Hawthorns, Highley Crescent, is where we live. She’s at work during the day, of course.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “Fennings’ Mill. She’s cashier there.”

  “Thank you, Miss Lackland.”

  “Will that be all?”

  Menstone was still looming protectively over Vera, pouting with displeasure and self-assertiveness, like an angry turkey-cock round one of his threatened hens.

  “Yes, thanks. I’d just like a word with Mr. Liptrot, if you’ll be so good. Thank you both.…”

  There must have been some intonation of goodwill in Littlejohn’s voice, for they both turned and smiled before they went. Menstone beamed at the wraith and Vera flashed her eloquent eyes straight at the Inspector. They went off together to get Liptrot and for the remainder of the evening, the rest of the suitors were left in the cold.

  Mr. Liptrot was greeted by shouts of laughter as he crossed the room to join Littlejohn. He was the funny man of the society. A perfect scream. He was a stocky, slightly bowlegged chap, studying to become an architect. He was a keen amateur actor, although he stammered when excited. On the stage he never showed a sign of his infirmity; off it, he sometimes seemed to chase his words all over his mouth before ejecting them.

  Liptrot faced Littlejohn with half a beard on his face. Hence the mirth. He was a make-up maniac. Always at it with his grease-paints and whiskers. He had just been inventing a phenomenal first gravedigger.

  “Did you want me?”

  A goatee beard climbing up one side of his face; the other side clean-shaven, as yet. He looked to have the two halves of different heads glued together and stuck on his thick body.

  Littlejohn asked his questions.

  “Oh, yes. I guess Barrow would have access to the make-up box, if he wanted. It’s kept, as a rule, in a little room off the stage. I bring it for dress-rehearsal and there it lies, till I tidy it up after the show.…”

  “Have you missed anything from it lately? Any grease-paints and whiskers?”

  “No. And if we had, I’d know, because I keep it stocked and see that everything’s there.…”

  Liptrot paused a moment and then something seemed to strike him. He began to stammer and his words seemed to stick to his palate like flies to a flypaper.

  “W-w-ait a - - - bit. Yes. About a year ago, we had some stuff pinched. I remember it. Must have b-b-b-een after the dress rehearsal. Damned awkward on the night. Instead of having the sticks of paint, I had to blend two or three together. Somebody pinched a Lit.K.…”

  “Pardon.…”

  “A Lit.K. Mixture of Number 5 and Number 9.…”

  “Are those the colours of the tints?”

  “I’d have thought you’d know that. Detectives often disguise themselves, don’t they?”

  “Never done it in my life.”

  Liptrot looked put-out. He’d always understood from penny-dreadfuls that.… Well, well. It was the penny-dreadfuls that had started his interest in make-up, and now, detectives never disguised themselves! He looked hard at Littlejohn. Must be a very poor sort of detective, or else, as a matter of policy they didn’t make a habit of owning up.

  “So somebody took the make-up.”

  “Yes. A Lit.K., as I said, a stick of carmine Vermillion, and a chunk of black crepe hair—all we’d got. Good job we didn’t need whiskers for Mine’s a Bitter, else we’d have been in a jam.”

  “That was over a year ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks very much. And now, I must be going. Good luck for the show.”

  “Thanks, we’ll need it.…”

  “I am thy father’s spirit;

  Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,

  And for the day confined to fast in fires

  Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

  Are burnt and purged away.…”

  The ghost was walking and talking. Talking well, too. The best voice and style of all the lot.

  Littlejohn turned to find Cuthbert Allen on the stage, voicing his lines with easy grace and skill.

  The Inspector left the hall smiling to himself. One never knows all the lights some people hide under bushels.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FENNINGS’ MILL

  LITTLEJOHN was up at eight o’clock. As expected, The Queen Anne hadn’t much to offer in the way of comfort. The bedroom was cheerless and overlooked a back street where customers parked their cars. Across the way, there was a brush shop in the dim interior of which he could see an old man and a few girls fixing bristles into wooden handles. They all looked fed-up with the job.

  There wasn’t even “hot and cold” in the room. A large jug and basin
on a painted washstand and a can of hot water outside the door. The bedstead was a heavy iron one with brass knobs.…

  Breakfast was in keeping with the rest. Sausages, half-cold coffee, tough toast and a splash of marmalade. The Inspector lit his pipe and went out, hoping that the case would fold-up quickly and release him from his temporary prison.…

  It was still cold and wet. The town was dreary and uninteresting; everybody looked bored and worried.

  Littlejohn wandered along the main street. The river was still high and now was coloured by a dirty brown dye which some works or other higher up than the town was pouring into it. The way to Fennings’ Mill lay along the waterside.

  The factory had, at one time, been driven by water power. It towered amid the rest of the small, dirty, brick-built houses, a sharp contrast in stone. The chimney was vomiting smoke and the racket of machinery could be heard long before you reached the mill gates. It was a compact, self-contained place, carrying on preparation in the tall, many-storied part and weaving in low sheds flanking a central yard. The whirr of the spinning frames mingled with the clack of looms.

  The mill was surrounded on three sides by a maze of little houses and narrow streets. The river flanked the other.

  There was a gate-house at the main entrance. Little better than a shed, with a desk, a fire and a wall-clock where the workers punched their time-cards. The man who opened the door in reply to Littlejohn’s knock was small and bowlegged. His face was pumpkin-shaped and he had a hook instead of a hand on his left arm.

  “What do you want?” He removed his pipe and spat past the Inspector into the street.

  Inside, on the rough wooden desk, were spread newspapers and football-pool forms. The gateman had been filling in his choices for the week-end and was annoyed at the disturbance. When you stand a chance of winning ten thousand pounds, you don’t want your deliberations disturbing!

  “Is Mr. Fenning in?”

  The man eyed him up and down impudently.

  “Which one?”

  “Mr. Andrew.…”

  “You’ve got some ’opes. Another hour afore he’ll be here.”

  “Is the other brother in?”

  “Aye. Mr. James is in th’office. You from the police?”

  “Yes.”