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  ‘This is Chief Superintendent Littlejohn, from Scotland Yard, Archie. He wants to ask you a few questions about Mr. Kaltbad.’

  Archie gave Littlejohn his best army salute.

  ‘At your service, Chief. My present feelin’s about Mr. Kaltbad isn’t of the best. He beat it owing me a fortnight’s pay. Always paid on the nail before. I trusted him and he let me down.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘He cleared off one night without so much as a word of thanks or paying what he owed me.’

  ‘Was he a greedy man?’

  ‘Not usually. He was a foreigner – a German – who came over here out of Hitler’s way. I believe he got nationalised English.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘On Wednesday night.…’

  ‘That was the night the crime was committed and we found the body in the gateway of Mountjoy.’

  ‘By then, we’d emptied and cleaned the house. The vans had left for Hamburg three nights before that and Mr. Kaltbad was staying at a local hotel.’

  ‘Which was that?’

  ‘The Golden Lion in the High Street. On Wednesday Mr. Kaltbad said he had some final bits of business to clear up and would see me in the morning before he left for his plane. After that I didn’t see him again. He’d gone before I turned up at 8 a.m. I helped him with his removal. He said he was a bit homesick and wanted to end his days in his old country and retire to Hamburg. We shipped off all his goods and I swept out the place and left it all neat and tidy.’

  Dodds paused in his narrative to interject some private abuse about his former employer.

  ‘… I’d been with him over ten years and never a wrong word.’

  ‘You say you swept up the place?’

  ‘From attics to cellars. Mr. Kaltbad insisted. Said a clean job would improve the price.’

  ‘Did you sweep out the coal cellar as well?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘What kind of a man was Mr. Kaltbad?’

  ‘Very decent chap. He spoke good English. He sold musical instruments. Had a business in the West End. He was a tallish man and very fat. Which isn’t to be wondered at considering the amount he ate. He was very fond of good food and wine.’

  ‘Judging from Mountjoy, he must have done well in his musical business.’

  ‘It’s a big place and he made it very nice and comfortable. He’d some lovely furniture and a lot of very valuable antiques. But he seemed to be a lonely man. I think he must have had some family tragedies in the war. He never opened up about them, but you could see grief sort of written in his face sometimes. He wasn’t married, as far as I know. Now and then, he’d entertain a friend, but only one at a time. And he really went to town on food and wine when he did.’

  ‘How do you know all these details, if you were concerned with the gardens?’

  ‘I came in to wait at table. I’d been a waiter of sorts once in an officers’ mess. Mr. Kaltbad liked a nice show and Mrs. Cavanagh, his housekeeper and cook, couldn’t do all the work at such times. So I was called in.’

  ‘Where is Mrs. Cavanagh now?’

  ‘She came from a place called Skibbereen, in Southern Ireland, and left for home last week.’

  ‘What sort of friends did Mr. Kaltbad entertain?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call them musical-looking. Him being in the trade, you’d expect long-haired pianists and hungry composers, wouldn’t you? But Mr. K’s friends were like business men. Some of them looked real gents and others a bit slick. You could sort them out by the way they behaved at table. Some seemed as if they’d never seen a knife and fork before in their lives and ate the food like pigs. It made Mr. Kaltbad wince sometimes.’

  ‘What kind of business do you think was transacted? You must have heard the conversation as you were waiting at table.’

  ‘Not a thing. Mr. K never talked business while dining. All the business must have been done over drinks and cigars afterwards, in private. When they was settled with their smokes and their glasses Mr. Kaltbad would tell me that was all, which meant I could hop it home.’

  ‘Was there a safe among the items shipped to Hamburg?’

  ‘No. There was a safe in the house, small but good. But Mr. Kaltbad sold that before he left. He said it was too heavy for shipment and he’d better sell it and buy another on the other side if he needed one.’

  ‘Did Mr. Kaltbad ever go abroad?’

  ‘Yes. Most of his instruments came from the Continent and I guess he went there to buy them.’

  ‘How often did he go?’

  ‘Three or four times a year for a few days. Amsterdam, Hamburg, Zurich. Big cities in Europe. He was never long away. His West End business must have been a busy one.’

  Dodds talked on and on. He seemed glad of some company and was not in the least reticent about his employer and his affairs. He was a chain-smoker and punctuated his narrative with hacking bouts of coughing. When each fit began he flung away his present cigarette in disgust, as though forswearing the habit altogether. And when he’d recovered he lit another!

  ‘Do you think Mr. Kaltbad had any other business besides the musical one?’

  ‘You’re thinking, sir, as I often did, that he must have needed a good income to keep up Mountjoy and his style of living. I wondered myself when I saw the champagne, the cigars and the posh car he kept. They needed a lot of money to pay for them. The men who visited him might have come to do business. Sometimes those gatherings were a bit grim. Not the sort of light-hearted affairs you’d expect from musical people. I wouldn’t have liked to put my money on some of those visitors. Too slick and smooth. You know the sort I mean. I wondered if Mr. Kaltbad was a moneylender as well and some of his callers were raising loans. What is all this leading to, sir? Are you going to tell me Mr. K was a crook?’

  Littlejohn produced the post-mortem photograph of Charles Blunt.

  ‘Did you ever see that man at Mountjoy?’

  Dodds put on an old pair of spectacles solemnly and then squirmed as he saw the picture.

  ‘This is a bit of a gruesome one, isn’t it? Was he dead?’

  ‘Yes. Murdered. His body was found at the gates of Mountjoy on the night you say Kaltbad ran out on you.’

  Dodds whistled.

  ‘I can’t say for certain I ever saw this chap. But his face seems to ring a bell. I think he came to Mountjoy but it must have been some time since.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A year or two.’

  That seemed to tally with Blunt’s assumed routine. A big job, and a long retirement on the results. Then another coup when the proceeds ran out. It was quite possible that Kaltbad had been the mysterious fence the police had never discovered.

  Littlejohn lit his pipe.

  ‘Let’s all go over to Mountjoy. I’ve still got the keys.’

  Sergeant Reaper had not spoken a word during the interview, silently looking wise and nodding approval of what was going on. Now, he seemed highly amused at Littlejohn’s last suggestion. He gave a noisy laugh.

  ‘Antrobus won’t be doing much business, will he, sir? House for sale and the police holding the keys.…’

  The rest of the comment died away as Dodds interrupted him. He was eager to continue the dialogue and shouted Reaper down.

  ‘I’m at your service, sir. But you’ll not find much there now.…’

  ‘Bring a spade with you and a garden brush, Dodds.’

  The man’s jaw fell.

  ‘You’re not thinking of digging-up the garden, are you?’

  He looked pained, as though such manual toil would spoil the encounter completely for him.

  ‘No. We’ll take them just in case we need them.’

  Dodds entered one of the sheds and returned dragging the implements behind him.

  Both Reaper and Dodds exchanged bewildered looks for different reasons. Dodds was thinking about digging for hidden loot; Reaper about dead bodies.

  Littlejohn led them to the cellars as soon as they had rea
ched and opened Mountjoy.

  ‘By the way, Dodds, there was a cat locked up in the cellars the first time I was here. It went mad to get outside.’

  ‘That would be Hans, Mr. K’s pet cat. He vanished with the last of the furniture and we couldn’t find him anywhere. Mr. Kaltbad was upset. I was going to adopt Hans.…’

  Dodds forgot the cat as he contemplated the scattered coal dust in the coal-hole. He stood with his hands on his hips and a disgusted expression on his face and then lit one cigarette from the butt of another.

  ‘Somebody’s been here. I didn’t leave it like that. I swept it neatly into the corner according to Mr. K’s instructions.’

  ‘Shovel it back again, Dodds, and let’s look at the floor underneath.’

  Reaper was so impressed that he took the shovel from Dodds’s grasp and started to do it himself. Dodds, not to be outdone, set to work with the brush and, impeding each other in their eagerness, they cleared the flagstones. Then they both straightened themselves and looked without a word at Littlejohn, questioning the next move.

  Littlejohn examined the joints of the flags. They consisted of sections each about three feet square.

  ‘Let’s lift those four,’ he said, indicating the stones he meant.

  The two set to work with a will, excited by the thought of either a body or a treasure. Reaper operated with his spade, scrabbling to introduce the blade into one of the joints. Dodds, finding his broom useless for the purpose, knelt and tried to assist with his bare fingers. Finally, they got a hold and heaved the slab out of its place. The rest was easy.

  ‘Now. Let’s start to dig.’

  Reaper stripped off his tunic and rolled up his shirt sleeves, and his companion, not to be outdone, removed his old jacket, revealing a shirt with the sleeves cut short at the elbows. He regarded the panting, grunting, sergeant with the patient tolerance of the professional for the amateur and as soon as Reaper paused for breath snatched the spade from him.

  ‘Give here,’ he said and before setting to work heaved up three more slabs of stone. Then he spat on his hands and set about the job with the mechanical rhythmic ease of an old hand.

  Reaper rolled down his sleeves and put on his tunic again. He mopped his forehead sulkily, as though resenting Dodds’s interference.

  ‘I don’t know what we’re hunting for, but it’s not there,’ he said, and then, realising that it didn’t do to be petulant before a superior officer, he apologetically added for Little-john’s benefit, ‘Excuse me saying so, sir, but that’s my opinion.’

  Dodds had already dug a hole two feet deep. He paused in his labours and addressed Reaper with contempt.

  ‘What do you know about it? Somebody was digging here before us; the soil’s too loose. I’m not givin’ up. We’ll soon find what we’re after, whatever that might be.’

  ‘Whoever did it must have been pretty thorough then. And where did he get his spade?’ said Littlejohn.

  ‘That’s easy, sir,’ said Dodds. ‘There’s a shedfull of tools and a lawn mower at the bottom of the garden. Mr. Kalt bad said he wouldn’t need ’em where he was going and he gave them to me. I was going to move them.’

  Six inches more and Dodds stopped suddenly and then threw down his spade, kneeled, and set to work with his hands, like a dog burying a bone.

  ‘Here we are.…’

  He thrust his hand into the earth and lifted his arm. He was grasping the fingers of a limp hand. He tugged, the soil fell away, and the whole arm followed.

  More scraping and gentle digging and the body came to light.

  ‘That’s ’im,’ said Dodds.

  Reaper disappeared in a dark corner and they could hear him being sick.

  Chapter 8

  The Best Cracksman in the World

  Kaltbad’s body was removed to the mortuary and thence to the pathological laboratory, and the further investigations seemed like a repetition of those in the Blunt affair. With the exception that the limelight now fell on Mountjoy. The place was carefully gone over again without profitable results. The fact that all Kaltbad’s possessions had been removed and were now on the docks at Hamburg created an added difficulty.

  The medical reports gave the approximate time of Kaltbad’s death as around that of Blunt’s. This time the cause of death was a bullet from a revolver. The murders must have been connected, but why was another matter. Kaltbad had been buried in his clothes, and the pockets held the usual odds and ends a man carries around with him: keys, a wallet containing £50 in British notes and some German money, as well as a bunch of traveller’s cheques, some loose change and a passport. His wrist watch, a signet ring, sleeve links and gold cigarette-case and lighter had not been removed. There was a loaded revolver in his jacket pocket one shot had been fired from it.

  Littlejohn himself questioned the owner of the hotel where Kaltbad had arranged to pass his last night before retiring to Germany. His hand luggage was there and the contents were gone through without any result. They consisted mainly of clothing and toilet accessories of one kind and another and files of papers concerning Kaltbad’s musical enterprises. Nothing illuminating in connection with the death, or the reasons for it.

  To add to the many sides of the case, Mrs. Havenith and her retinue arrived back at The Limes. Mrs. Morgan had reported recent events to her by telephone, and, a sensation seeker, she had been unable to resist the attraction of the police investigation.

  Cromwell called to see her in view of the fact that she had been in residence at The Limes at the time of Blunt’s disaster. He found her with Leo, whom she seemed to have recalled from his other business to support her.

  Julie Havenith was every inch a film star. In fact, she had, through her husband’s interest before he married her, appeared in the preliminary operations of a film, but the producer and director had found her beauty so completely outweighed by her lack of brains that they had preferred to sacrifice Mr. Havenith’s financial backing rather than go bankrupt later.

  She was an impetuous blonde, childish, eager, and physically extremely attractive. She met Cromwell like a princess holding court, with Leo as an equerry.

  ‘How thrilling!’ she said as Cromwell was introduced by Mrs. Morgan.

  She eyed him up and down impudently. ‘But you don’t look like a cop.…’

  Cromwell did not. He had once or twice been mistaken for a Methodist parson in his modest dark clothes and spotless white linen. A comfortable, sophisticated officer, with a cheerful urbane manner. He answered the next question, too. He was not related to Oliver Cromwell!

  Having made a preliminary show of charm and interest in the case, Mrs. Havenith ordered Leo to give Cromwell a glass of sherry.

  Leo was a tall, fair, young man, with washed-out, blue baggy eyes, and he had plenty of charm himself when he cared to exert it. In build he might have been described as athletic, but he had never shown much physical effort or prowess. He lolled about the place and finally stretched himself on a couch and closed his eyes as though asleep until Mrs. Havenith, nettled by his lack of interest, rebuked him.

  ‘Leo! You have no need to be so palpably bored or disinterested.…’

  And, as though pleased with her choice of words, she repeated them to him.

  ‘Palpably disinterested.…’

  Then she noticed that Cairncross had joined the party. She had already dismissed the Morgans and now turned on the ex-policeman.

  ‘We don’t need you, Mr. Cairncross. Do we, Mr. Cromwell?’

  Cairncross flushed and was so nonplussed by the rudeness that he backed out of the room as though expecting to be shot in the rear.

  Then Mrs. Havenith turned to business.

  ‘Please, Mr. Cromwell, don’t communicate with my husband about this affair. His heart is bad and he is so fond of me that if he knew I’d got mixed up with the police he might have an attack or rush over here, which would not be good for him.…’

  ‘I can assure you, Mrs. Havenith, that you aren’t in any way invo
lved with the police. We are merely asking you to assist us in our inquiries. You have kindly given us.…’

  He almost said ‘an audience’ and then pulled himself up.

  ‘…given us permission to visit you.’

  Leo, straddled limply across the arm of the huge couch, suddenly awoke and gave tongue.

  ‘That sort of talk usually means you end up in gaol.’

  ‘Please, Leo. If you can’t be polite, be quiet. There’s been a thief around trying to steal my diamonds and he’s been killed.’

  She seemed delighted about it.

  ‘That is a very brief summary of what has occurred, Mrs. Havenith. Although the thief probably hadn’t attempted his burglary before he died, he was, we think, investigating the possibilities of robbing this house sooner or later.’

  Leo interjected more of his nasty remarks.

  ‘Then how do you think we can help? We weren’t even here when it happened. Have we been brought all the way from the Cotswolds for this?’

  ‘But he has been living in the flats next door, Leo dear, watching and waiting until the time was ripe. Mrs. Morgan told us all about it. Remember?’

  ‘She told us so much I’ve forgotten half of it.’

  Cromwell rose and put down his glass.

  ‘I won’t take up much of your time. We are really concerned with what happened on the night Blunt was murdered. You were at home then, preparing to move to the country on the following day. You returned early from the theatre.…’

  ‘We never got there at all. I was taken ill on the way and we turned the car and came home.’

  ‘Arriving back about nine?’

  ‘Yes. Did Morgan tell you this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She had no business to do so. As Leo said, she talks too much. However, what she told you was right.’

  ‘You used your own car and chauffeur?’

  ‘Yes. It was the Bentley. We use that when there are a few of us. Otherwise we use the Rolls; it holds more passengers.’

  ‘And Mr. Leo was with you?’

  ‘Of course. He was my escort for the evening.’

  ‘You both retired at once?’

  ‘We had a drink before we went, but we didn’t waste any time. I had a splitting headache and much to do the following day going to the country. I retired almost at once and got to bed as quickly as I could. Did Mrs. Morgan tell you that, too?’