The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 5

  “I’ll see if ’e’ll see you.…”

  The pumpkin left Littlejohn standing at the door and went to speak on a telephone to the mill.

  “Go over to th’office, across yard there. He’s in there.”

  The man turned his back and rolled off to his pools again without another word. He seemed to have no interest in anything but next Saturday’s winners.

  Littlejohn crossed the cobbled yard to the offices. A modern, square, brick-built block with frosted glass windows, each bearing the company’s name, “Fennings (1924) Ltd.” He passed through the swing-doors into the warm interior. The first door on the right was labelled Come in. Littlejohn did so and found himself at a small counter with a full view of the room.

  It was a kind of general office for anything and anybody. At a table sat a junior clerk putting used envelopes in piles and sticking labels on them so that they could be used again. His hair stood in a shock on top of his head and his forehead was covered with pimples. Behind him, a workman in dungarees and a cloth cap was manipulating a machine for testing the strength of yarn.

  The boy rose, nodded officiously and raised his eyebrows in enquiry. This resulted in a general movement among the pimples on his forehead. The Inspector handed him his card.

  “Mr. James Fenning, please.”

  The youth was off like a shot from a gun. He gave his opinion fluently about the detective from Scotland Yard that night at evening school.…

  The boy was soon back. He was muttering something. He may have been complaining or apologising. You couldn’t tell which.

  The room into which Littlejohn was ushered was quite different from the rest. Thick red carpet on the floor, light oak panelling on the walls from top to bottom, a circular board-table in the centre with leather chairs round it. And on the walls two portraits in oils of old men and two good etchings.

  A door at the far end opened and Mr. James Fenning entered.

  He was different altogether from his brother. He looked older and more serious. He was thin, tall, with an ascetic face. Where Mr. Andrew’s hair was thick and curly, James’s was straight, dark and thin.

  They shook hands. Mr. James removed a pair of black-framed spectacles, carefully put them in a case and put the case in his pocket. He was well dressed in blue cheviot with spotless linen and an old-school tie.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  The same cultured voice, but more business-like than his brother’s. This was a man with no time to waste.

  “As you know, I’m engaged on the Barrow case and I’d like, if I may, to look round the place and see where the crime actually happened.…”

  “Certainly. Anything I can do…?”

  “Thank you, sir. I gather that Mr. Barrow had been with you all his life.… All his working life, I mean.”

  “Yes. He came to us from school as office boy and rose to be secretary. My father gave him his first job.”

  “And all that time, you had found him scrupulously honest?”

  “Yes. I can’t understand the turn of events at all. It’s a complete mystery to me. I’m glad the local police have called in you chaps to help. The sooner it’s all cleared up the better.”

  “We’re all eager to do that. Mrs. Barrow has been urging us on, too. She’s very worried about the charge of dishonesty hanging over her husband’s name.”

  James Fenning had long, delicate hands. They were never still. Not fingering anything, but just moving and twitching, as though he were counting gently on his fingers.

  “You’ve seen Mrs. Barrow then?”

  “Yes. I was at her place last night.”

  “How is she?”

  There was a note of anxiety in the tone.

  “Seems to be taking it very well.”

  Fenning nodded.

  Outside they were loading something on a motor-lorry. There was a lot of shouting and then the lorry started up and made off.

  Fenning didn’t ask Littlejohn to sit down. He seemed anxious to be getting on with whatever he had been doing when he was disturbed. Now and then his eyes turned anxiously in the direction of his private room.

  “I’ll get someone to take you over to the warehouse, then. The crime occurred there and it was there that the little man who went mad found the body.…”

  “Just one point before I go, sir. The reports say that Mr. Barrow had been altering the books. Is that so?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Were you certain it was his handwriting?”

  “It was figures he’d altered. Nobody but my brother and I and the accountants had access to those particular ledgers. They were the stock records.”

  “Did Mr. Barrow post them himself, then?”

  “Oh, no. They were done in the general office, but they were kept under lock and key when not in use.”

  “So, they could have been altered in the general office, then?”

  “Oh, yes. But the alteration would have soon been spotted. Besides, who, in the main office would have wanted to alter the records?”

  “That’s another matter.”

  “I know, but the alterations were in Barrow’s figures. We all know his figures.…”

  “And who recognised them?”

  “My brother and I, as well as some of the staff whom the police questioned.”

  Fenning looked a bit nettled. He wasn’t used to being cross-questioned about statements he made.

  “Have experts been called-in about this?”

  “Of course not. It doesn’t need an expert. The figures were Barrow’s. No doubt about it.”

  “We’ll have to go into that. Perhaps I may see the ledgers later. Meanwhile, what was the nature of the alterations?”

  “The previous figures had been carefully erased or scratched out and new ones imposed.”

  “Was it in cash?”

  “No. Stock, as I said before.”

  “Will you please be a little more explicit, sir?”

  James Fenning was getting rattled. He kept looking at the closed door of his room and fidgeting impatiently with his feet.

  “Really, Inspector. I’m a busy man. I’ve a visitor in my room. Couldn’t you call later?”

  “I’ll not keep you a minute, sir. The stock records were…?”

  “Briefly, it’s this. The ledger contained a record of the contents of the warehouse when we took stock a month ago. The figures are used for the annual balance-sheet, as you’re no doubt aware. Next stocktaking, we shall check the warehouse again and this should tally with the balance shown last time, plus additions, minus deliveries outwards. Follow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “But what had Barrow altered?”

  “He had increased the deliveries outward figures, thereby making the stock, depleted by whatever had been stolen, tally. In other words, systematically arranged for stock to come out all right whenever we cared to check it again with the contents of the warehouse.”

  “I follow. I’m no accountant, sir, but that strikes me as rather stupid. The alterations might have come to light at any time. Surely, Mr. Barrow knew something about book-keeping?”

  “Whether he did or not, that’s what he did. Altered the books to cover his own thefts.”

  “Are you of the opinion that he was robbing the firm, then?”

  “What else could it be and who else?”

  “H’m. Do you ever sell stuff from the warehouse to people like Judge?”

  “Certainly not. Whatever anyone else may say, I think Barrow was carrying on a black-market racket with Judge and that he met him here to turn over the shirtings after dark.…”

  “Disguised?”

  Fenning pursed his lips.

  “Yes, disguised. My theory is that Barrow tried to make himself unrecognisable just in case he was disturbed. My brother thinks the same. He had to come and go through thickly populated streets to get to the mill. The grease paint and whiskers were just the same as the old burglar’s
mask.…”

  “That’s reasonable, sir. So you think.…”

  “I really must be going, Inspector. Call again when my brother’s in. Just before midday. I’ll be free, too and we can have another talk.”

  “Very good, sir. May I have a word with Miss Lackland, please?”

  Fenning’s eyebrows rose.

  “Miss Lackland? Oh, very well.”

  He went to the wall and pressed a bell-push.

  The boy with the pimples answered.

  “Send Miss Lackland to the Inspector in here, please. Perhaps you’d like the use of this room. More private. Ask for the warehouse on your way out. The boy will take you there. See you later.…”

  With that, Mr. James hurried off to his room and closed the door. You could hear him speaking quietly to someone inside.

  Janet Lackland was dark like her sister and had the same shining, dark metallic-looking hair. But she wore pale-rimmed spectacles, looked older and was more grave and sensible.

  “You wanted to see me, Inspector? Won’t you please sit down.”

  The girl was pale and had dark circles round her eyes. Her hands were well-kept and sensitive and she kept pushing back the skin at the base of the nails with nervous fingers. She didn’t seem to notice she was doing it.

  “I hear that Mr. Barrow was suspected of altering the books of the firm. Do you have access to these ledgers?”

  All the remaining colour drained from Janet Lackland’s face leaving the spots of rouge on her cheeks standing out in vivid artificial contrast. Then her eyes blazed.

  “It’s a beastly lie! Mr. Barrow would never have done such a thing. He was a fine man. Whoever says he was dishonest is a liar. Oh, I know, they say he was stealing the firm’s goods and covering himself that way; but I know he wouldn’t have done.”

  Tears began to flow down her cheeks although she made no noise or motion of weeping. She was very overwrought.

  “You were a friend of Mr. Barrow’s?”

  “Yes. He was very good to me. I won’t have his name blackened and him not here to defend himself.”

  And with that, she burst into tears properly.

  It took some time for her to recover her control and then she sat wanly facing Littlejohn like someone waiting sentence.

  “You played in Mr. Barrow’s little orchestra, I believe, Miss Lackland?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Would you describe Mr. Barrow as a happy man?”

  Utter silence in the room. Outside all the noises of the mill and beyond Mr. James’s door, the sound of his voice talking to his visitor. Littlejohn repeated the question.

  “Was Mr. Barrow happy?”

  The girl stared straight into Littlejohn’s eyes and threw back her head. Then suddenly she gave way in a torrent of words.

  “You needn’t think I don’t know what’s been said about Ambrose Barrow and me. I know it all. I was in love with him. He gave me all the things that go for happiness. He taught me music, he encouraged me in my playing, he took me in his orchestra, yes, and he took me to concerts and did all kinds of sweet little things to make me happy. And I tried to make up for all the misery his wife caused him. To her way of thinking he wasn’t good enough for her. The Fennings were her class. Her class, indeed! Brought up in the gutter! That’s her class.…”

  “Was Barrow in love with you, Miss Lackland?”

  “Yes. I’m not ashamed of it. Put it down in your notebook and tell everyone. I don’t care. I tried to keep it secret, but now I don’t care. He seems to have nobody to defend his good name now he’s dead. Well… I’ll defend it. I want everybody to know we were in love and I’ll tell them why and what a good man he was. Do you know why I wasn’t his mistress? I would have gone any length, I loved him so much. But he wouldn’t have spoiled it that way. He said so. He loved me too much. Sordid week-ends in hotels, creeping here and there debasing our love by dodging those who didn’t know the meaning of love.… That was Ambrose Barrow, and that’s as I remember him. I shall love him till I die. And now he’s dead, strangled, in grease paint and a moustache.…”

  She started to laugh, but before the hysterical fit could go far, Littlejohn leaned over and slapped her face.

  She recovered and started to sob quietly.

  “Sorry I had to do that, but really, Miss Lackland, we can’t have you advertising your feelings like that. Try to calm down a bit before you go back in the office.…”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t realise.…”

  “I know. And now I’ve a suggestion to make. Say nothing to anyone about your love affair with Ambrose Barrow; the less said the better, as far as you’re concerned. Leave things to me. If Barrow was innocent of the charges, I’ll see that his name’s cleared. No need for you to attract attention and damaging publicity by making a fuss.… Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Then you’ll leave it to me. I’ll defend Mr. Barrow if he deserves it.…”

  “Thank you. You’re the first one who’s understood. Ambrose was really a good man.…”

  “Well, don’t start to upset yourself again, Miss Lackland. From now on, rely on me. And now, run along and bathe your eyes. Don’t let them know in the office that you’ve been having a scene. And, by the way, I may want you to help me with the books Mr. Barrow is said to have tampered with. Will you… later?”

  “Anything.…”

  “And now, I’ll be off to the warehouse.”

  The pimply boy led the way. Past the offices, across the yard to an old stone building of three storeys. On the way there, Littlejohn looked back at the window of what he judged was Mr. James Fenning’s private room. There was a desk-light burning behind the frosted screen which held the shadows of James and his visitor, who seemed to be standing ready to part. Just above the screen projected an object which Littlejohn easily recognised.

  It was the pill-box hat!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHISKERS AND PAINT

  BENJAMIN YULE was head warehouseman at Fennings. A little fat rolling man, dressed in dungarees, wearing a cloth cap and full of his own importance. Fate had not dealt kindly with Ben. Once, he’d been in business on his own and brought back a wife to a flourishing little shop. A multiple store had immediately opened opposite, the child they’d planned the future for had been stillborn, and his wife, Cora, had grown into a nag and a scold. Ben had had to find a job, a menial one, too, and he was just contemplating throwing himself in the reservoir which provided water for Fennings’ engines, when Mrs. Cooper-Cantrell came to the rescue.

  It was long-distance redemption, for Mrs. Cooper-Cantrell was the leader of a new sect, the First Pentecostals, in Iowa somewhere. Ben was caught up in the crusade which swept through Brockfield and now he was the leader of one of the meetings. So sure was he that all the “Truths” contained in Mrs. Cooper-Cantrell’s Testament were correct, that he took on a new lease of life, faced his troubles four-square and routed them, Cora included. Soon he had his wife bellowing hymns of joy and praise above all the rest, and they appointed him head warehouseman at the mill because the Cooper-Cantrell authority which covered him like an impervious cloak, made him a leader of men.

  Ben took Littlejohn’s measure by eyeing him up and down. The Inspector probably hadn’t yet received THE MESSAGE (See C.-C. Testament, page 46) but Ben liked him. He decided to co-operate. He showed the Inspector exactly where the body had been found. Not that that did much good, for the place had been swilled out and scrubbed since the crime.

  Reader Yule—Ben had a title in the sect and was proud of it—did, however, spring a surprise on Littlejohn. He produced the broken top of a stick of grease-paint and asked if that was any use to him.

  “That any use to yer?” he asked.

  “Where did you get this from, Mr. Yule?” said Littlejohn.

  “On the window-bottom the day after the murder.”

  “Why didn’t you hand it to the police, then?”

  “I didn’t
know what it was at first. I called here on my way to Meeting that Sunday mornin’. I always do. Just to see as all’s well. It’s on me way. The police were here when I arrived. They was so busy talking to the two Mister Fennings that they didn’t notice me. I was of no importance.…”

  Ben turned his small, button nose heavenwards slightly and sniffed. His pride had been hurt by the local police and he’d taken the huff.

  “In me own warehouse, too. Treated like an intruder.”

  “Well, Mr. Yule?”

  “I pottered about a bit and found this on the window-sill nearest the corpse. That one there.…”

  He pointed a podgy index.

  “… I put it in me pocket and forgot it. Meantime, the police just ignored me. Dealt with the directors and ignored me. I could have told them a thing or two, but I wasn’t going to butt in where I wasn’t wanted.”

  “It was your duty to tell them, though, Mr. Yule. Your personal feelings shouldn’t have prevented that.”

  “You needn’t tell me my duty. I know that well enough,” snapped Ben with the conviction of a true Cooper-Cantrellite. “That’s why I’m tryin’ to help you now.”

  “Well, sir?”

  “I’m coming to it.”

  Ben liked the “sir.” It showed respect. He was on Littlejohn’s side at once. The local police would ignore him, would they? Well.…

  “It’s like this. I got wet-through on the Sunday after the murder. It put me in bed with me lumbago again and I was away a week. Couldn’t even straighten myself up. Did the police come to see me? No, they didn’t. They messed about with the Fennings who know nothing what goes on in the warehouse, except what I tell ’em. I’m a trusted servant of the firm.…”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Yes. Well, it was this way. We did sell bits and pieces of shirtings and stuff, coupon-free, to outsiders. Nothing big. Just ends, at most a foot or two, cut off when we made up the lengths for export or home markets. There’d be perhaps bits with flaws in ’em, or the selvedge.…”

  Outside they were loading a lorry with large brown-paper parcels and on benches inside, girls were wrapping up lengths of shirting, labelling them and addressing them. Some of the stuff was being baled for export and stencilled “NO HOOKS.” This was superintended by a huge, loose-jointed ape of a man, who kept looking humbly in Ben’s direction for approval. Now and then, Ben would make some staccato remark on the proceedings and then go on with his tale.