Death Before Breakfast (12 page)

‘But that wasn't all. Something far worse.'

Good heavens! What was coming next! Littlejohn helped himself to some more brandy, as Monsieur Guy seemed to have forgotten it. The hall porter, who had edged nearer to be in at the kill, caught Littlejohn's eye, winked at him, and nodded to show that there was a real titbit on the way.

‘He ran off to the Riviera with a very nice guest of ours. A lady travelling alone, studying church music. She was English.'

Littlejohn was just swallowing a few drops of excellent brandy and it went down the wrong way. He choked and then controlled himself.

Luc stepped aside.

‘She was English,' he said with a chuckle.

There then began a contest between Monsieur Guy and Littlejohn. At first, Monsieur Guy began to address Littlejohn in broken English, but Littlejohn's French was more adequate. Monsieur Guy persisted for a time, for this was a chance to practise his English for the coming season. However, Littlejohn won.

‘What was her name?' he said in his good French.

‘It was on the
fiche
. The police here have it. I can find it for you, however, in the books.'

He clapped his hands in the direction of the desk labelled
Reception
by an illuminated sign, which kept going in and out, not intentionally, but because there was something wrong with it.

A young lady like a film-star emerged and almost made obeisance to Monsieur Guy.

‘Mademoiselle Lebrun. First, get the electrician to repair that sign. It's at it again. Now, you remember the Englishwoman who stayed here last May? The one who was interested in church music?'

‘Yes, Monsieur Guy.'

‘What was her name?'

‘I'll look it up, Monsieur Guy.'

‘Do so, and be quick.'

She gave him an adoring look and undulated behind the opaque glass screen where the secrets of the hotel were presumably kept. Littlejohn wondered if Jourin had tried his wiles with the receptionist, too. She seemed his style.

‘Will you tell me what happened whilst Mile. Lebrun's looking up the name?'

‘I will, indeed. It appears from all accounts, that Jourin struck up an acquaintance with the English lady. I believe he told her he was interested in church music, too. As if he
was
! But just like him. They went out quite a lot together
in the three days he remained here, before my father kicked him out. Visiting local churches, I gather. Can you beat it? Jourin! From what I'm told, Jourin fell properly for her. I never saw her, but I believe she was lovely and a perfect lady. Simon, come here!'

The porter scuttled to be in the forefront. He was wearing felt slippers and his haste almost shook the ornaments from the walls.

‘You were here when Jourin had the impertinence . .. ?'

‘I was. But the funny thing was, he seemed in love proper with the English Miss. She had him round her little finger. Why else should he have stayed here with the police after him. He was a proper cool 'un.'

‘That will be all, Simon. I just wanted you to confirm, not to sing a hymn of praise about him. When he left, he took the English girl with him to Cannes.'

The porter loitered off reluctantly, but posted himself well within earshot.

‘Well, well. And you never saw them again.'

‘I wasn't here. But the young lady returned from the Riviera, without Jourin, less than a week later. Her brother brought her back.'

‘Her brother! I see. How did that come about?'

‘A few days after Jourin had taken the lady away, her brother telephoned from London. He'd had a postcard from Cannes. As she'd left England without any intention of going farther south than Vézelay, where, as you know, the music of the Church of the Madeleine is absolutely unique, her brother was anxious about her. He knew she should have stayed with us another week, when he hoped to join her here. My father told him what had happened. He said he couldn't prevent it and warned the brother what a scoundrel Jourin was. The brother, it seems, took the next 'plane for Paris, arrived here on his way south, learned that Jourin had booked-in at the
Carlton
, at Cannes, and rushed off there hot-foot to find her. Next day,
next
day, they were back here, late at night, asking for rooms and on their way home to England. My father told me the young lady didn't seem at all upset or embarrassed. My father said, in his opinion, she was a bit soft in the head. Very beautiful, but
une sotte. Une originale
. The type who ought not to travel alone. It seems she also played the harp. …'

Monsieur Guy sniggered discreetly and smoothed his little moustache, which reminded Littlejohn of a couple of misplaced commas.

Mlle. Lebrun was hurrying towards them with the information, but Littlejohn knew it already.

‘The name of the lady was Mademoiselle Macready. Her brother, who later brought her with him, was Doctor Macready.
Il était très gentil
. …'

‘I'll bet he was,' said Littlejohn.

Another dismal november morning. There was no rain as dawn hesitantly broke, but the sky was dark and low. Anything might happen.

Detective-Constable Peddar was on the job at daybreak. He was sitting in a police-car in Sackville Street, watching the gate of
The Sycamores
and ready to follow Sammy Barnes on an excursion to the ends of the earth, if needs be. He was an earnest young man, eager to get on and in the duties of the coming day he saw a chance of doing it. He sat as low as possible in his vehicle, which, on Cromwell's advice, he'd parked in front of the church.

‘It'll look as though you've gone inside to say your prayers,' the sergeant had told him.

Peddar had also given a lift, under cover of darkness, to Detective-Constable Stopford, who was jovial, but keen. Stopford's cracks about the November dawn got on Peddar's nerves a bit. He was concentrating on the work assigned to him, and was relieved when he was able to drop his companion at the end of July Street and brood upon the task in hand.

The Willesden police had borrowed the key of the empty house almost opposite that of Mr. Peeples, and Stopford had been sent there to keep an eye on No. 25, where the little French polisher lived with his wife and the two children who were recovering from whooping-cough. Stopford quietly let himself in and watched the dawn arrive as he sat on a box in the front room keeping an eye on the house over the way. It seemed a forlorn sort of job, and Stopford had been chosen for it because of his equable temper.

Stopford hadn't been at his post very long, before the upstairs window of Peeples' place showed a light. The blind was drawn and the watcher could not see what was going on, but it cheered him, at least, to know the house was occupied. He went into the hall to light a cigarette, and had hardly got back, before the light in the bedroom was extinguished.

It was then that Stopford realised the kind of job that had been assigned to him. He'd been promised relief at noon. How someone else was going to effect this was a mystery to Stopford. In the full light of day and under the curious eyes of the occupants of July Street, it was going to be a bit ticklish to keep it a secret. However, that was going to be someone else's headache. He began to wonder how he was going to pass the time, with one eye glued on Peeples' front door and a small dusty room in which to
entertain himself. He wasn't occupied with the problem for long.

Ten minutes after the bedroom light went out, Mr. Lionel Peeples appeared at his front door, struggling his way into a raincoat and putting on his cap. He then picked up an old suitcase, closed and locked the door, and made for the main Willesden Road.

Stopford barely got himself cautiously out of the empty house, before Peeples reached the end of July Street and turned to the left. When the detective saw him again, he was standing at the bus-stop, fifty yards down the road. He hadn't to wait long. Peeples had just time to take out and light a cigarette before the bus arrived. He bundled himself and his case on board and wormed his way upstairs.

Stopford had to run the last few yards, leapt on the vehicle, and made himself comfortable down below.

Peddar's vigil lasted longer. People came and went at the church, the priest finally emerged and went in the presbytery to his breakfast. There was a smell of ham and eggs coming from a house opposite, which made Peddar miserable, for he was a trencherman. Still nothing happened at
The Sycamores
. He was just beginning to wonder if instead of a trailing job to Eastbourne, he'd been sent on a fool's errand. Then, a car suddenly appeared, a small saloon, driven by a man in overalls. It emerged from August Street, shot along Sackville Street and pulled up at Barnes's house.

The mechanic knocked on the door, someone answered, he didn't stay, but left the car, and walked back down July Street. Peddar started his engine and sat at the alert.

Ten minutes later, Barnes emerged alone. He'd been described to Peddar and the detective knew that his job was beginning. The car was so small and Barnes was so fat that he might have needed a monstrous shoe-horn to get him in the vehicle. But he was used to it. He went in head first on his stomach, sprawled all over the front seat, writhed
about until he was properly arranged, and then began to shout through the window for his wife.

‘Come on! Don't be all day.'

Mrs. Barnes hurriedly appeared, pulling on her gloves, walked slowly, like an invalid, to the car, opened the door herself and arranged herself beside her husband, who, all the time, could be seen grumbling and abusing her for keeping him waiting. His complaints off his chest, Barnes then started the car and set off down Sackville Street. Peddar followed in a hurry.

For some time, all went well. Shepherd's Bush, Hammersmith, Fulham. … And then, suddenly, Barnes pulled-up just beyond Putney Bridge and waited. Peddar passed him, turned down a side-street, parked, and emerged smoking a cigarette and began to look in the shop-windows.

Barnes was obviously annoyed. He looked at his watch, said something to his wife, didn't receive the right answer, and started to berate her again. She was spared much of it by the sudden appearance of a 'bus, from which a man in a raincoat and cap and carrying a battered suitcase descended. He saw Barnes's car at once and almost ran to join it. Barnes thrust his head through the window. He was, by now, in a towering rage and gave the newcomer a poor reception. Finally, the man in the cap scrambled in the back of the car and Barnes set-off again.

Peddar, however, almost lost his quarry by his astonishment at the sight of Stopford, descending from the same bus and making a desperate effort to appear casual. Peddar caught his colleague's eye and, without any other sign, hurried to his car, flung himself in it, and started the engine. Stopford seemed pleased to see him, but Peddar had no time for courtesies. He started the car before Stopford had closed the door, and was just in time to see the small black saloon vanishing in the far distance. He didn't speak until he was well and safely on the trail again.

‘What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Stopford looked pleased with himself.

‘The plot thickens. …'

‘Don't be funny. We nearly lost track of Barnes through your interference. What's happened?'

‘Is the black car the one you're tailing?'

‘Of course, it is. What else do you think I'm wandering about Putney for?'

‘Well, the chap who just got in it, is the one
I'm
tailing. So, as I said, the plot thickens.'

Peddar was without an answer. He concentrated on his driving. Barnes was beginning to lead them a dance and it needed all Peddar's concentration to keep him in sight. At Wimbledon, the little black saloon began to thread its way along side roads, finally bustled through Orpington, and continued easterly.

‘I thought Cromwell said you were making a trip to Eastbourne.'

‘This doesn't look like Eastbourne. We're heading for the river again.'

And they were. Barnes struck the main Canterbury road before Rochester, ran into Chatham, hesitantly wandered here and there in the town, as though his passenger were giving inexpert directions, and finally pulled-up in front of a terrace of houses in Medley Street, not far from the river.

Peddar without hesitation drove past Barnes's car, turned in the nearest sidestreet, nodded at Stopford, and said ‘It's all yours.'

Stopford hurriedly got out, discreetly peered round the corner, and then hastily returned to the police car.

‘It's all yours, you mean. My man's gone in one of the houses in the row where the car stopped. Yours is turning the car ready for off.'

It was like a comic act at a circus. The street was almost too narrow to turn the car in. Peddar, hot and bothered,
executed two half-turns, let in the clutch too quickly, and bounded back into Medley Street, just in time to see the back of Barnes's car rounding the distant corner.

But now there seemed to be no hurry at all. It was half-past eleven and Barnes was obviously looking for somewhere to eat. His wife was giving him advice which he resented. He stopped here and there, eyeing the restaurants and pubs expertly, decided against one or two, and finally chose a transport café on the main road. His emergence from the car was as complicated as the entrance, and Barnes flailed an undignified way out, leaving his wife behind. A minute or two later, he reappeared and shouted from the doorway.

‘Don't you want any food? What are you waitin' there for?'

Mrs. Barnes wearily got out and followed him in.

There was a pub at the corner with a card in the window.
Sandwiches
. Peddar hastily parked and made his way in. When he left half-an-hour later, the Barneses were still in the café. They waddled out after more than an hour's eating and Peddar had the unexciting job of following them home again. And that was that. As far as Mrs. Barnes's health was concerned, it didn't seem much of a tonic or anything else.