Devious Murder (10 page)

‘Oh, hell!'

He gave Cromwell, who had entered during the conversation, a full account of his troubles.

‘This seems to be a sequel to Charles Blunt's murder and whoever is responsible is a vicious swine.…'

Fortunately Hassock recovered consciousness that evening. Littlejohn went to his bedside immediately.

‘Well, old man. How do you feel?'

Hassock started to apologise.

‘I'm sorry, sir. I went about it the wrong way. A bit of bad luck.…'

Littlejohn felt he'd had enough for one day. First, Mrs. Hassock with her grievances and ailments, and now her husband, who'd escaped death by a fraction, on again about his bad luck!

‘Nothing of the kind, Hassock. You did very well. Did you see who attacked you?'

‘No. He must have been in the house when I arrived and hiding behind the door. He came up behind me and hit me as I entered and I remembered nothing more. All I remember is opening the front door.'

Tears began to run down his cheeks.

‘Don't worry, old man. We'll carry on where you left off.'

‘But it was really my case, wasn't it?'

‘Yes. And still will be when we've solved it.'

‘Was it you who found me, sir?'

‘Yes. And that was a bit of
good
luck. Your wife telephoned me to say you were missing. That was a change of luck for you. Now, get some sleep and I'll come and see you again tomorrow. Don't worry, you did fine.'

‘How is my wife?'

‘We told her and she's bearing up. We'll look after her while you're away.'

‘She's an invalid, you know, so she'll need.…'

‘We'll see that she needs nothing.'

The doctor arrived, said it was high time Hassock was left to sleep, and gave him an injection.

‘I'm sorry, sir,' said Hassock before he went under.

The doctor shook his head over him.

‘It's a wonder he remembers anything. As a rule they don't when suffering from concussion. As soon as he came round he started to apologise for being here. No complaints about being beaten; only sorry. I'd imagine he's what the Americans would call a good cop.…'

It was Hassock's bad luck that he was asleep as this compliment was paid to him.

‘… His wife's been on the phone to us four times,' added the doctor. ‘She insists that we send him home. Is she a bit of a nut case?'

The young doctor had just returned from a spell in an American hospital and had not quite shed the American slang.

On the way back to Scotland Yard, with one of those tricks of memory which seem to release information at inappropriate times, Littlejohn suddenly remembered the knot on the old rope used to tie up Hassock and where he had seen it made in the past. Many years before, he had in the course of his duties assisted a clever surgeon to whom he had later confessed that he had never seen an operating theatre. He had at once been invited to a famous hospital where the omission had been made good. Not only that, he had witnessed a major operation from the observation room. There he had watched with great interest the surgeons tying the firm, intricate, single-handed knots of sutures as they worked.

This revelation left him as much in the dark as ever, though. There was nobody in the case, hitherto, even remotely connected with surgery. And who, in that profession, was likely to be connected with Charles Blunt or to be found rambling about the deserted
Mountjoy
? To say nothing of laying out poor Hassock and brutally throwing him down the cellar steps. Littlejohn tucked the information away in his mind and called in Cromwell's room to report on Hassock's condition.

‘His wife's hounding the hospital now. She wants Hassock to be sent home at once. The young doctor there asked me if she was a nut case. His guess doesn't seem far wrong.'

‘What about the owner of the house, Tom? Had he any connection with Charles Blunt.'

‘If he had, he'd hardly have murdered him and then left the body at his own garden gate for everybody to see. He was a trombone merchant, or something similar, importing musical instruments and selling them over here. A man called Kaltbad, a German refugee from the Nazis. I'd no idea there was so much profit in musical instruments. Kaltbad seems to have returned to his native land to retire. He came from Hamburg. Perhaps the German police could give us some information about him. Will you put in an inquiry?'

‘Yes, I'll do that. Trombones. He sounds innocent enough.'

‘Famous last words!' said Littlejohn.

Meanwhile, the routine reports from the local police had arrived. There was nothing useful in them. The police had visited all the houses in the locality of
Mountjoy
without any results. Nobody had seen intruders there on the night of the crime. After the crime the usual curious sightseers had turned up for a grisly thrill but had contented themselves by inspecting the gateway. They had been disappointed; there was nothing whatever to satisfy their appetites.

Kaltbad, the owner of
Mountjoy
, had left an address in Hamburg with Antrobus & Co., and Scotland Yard had already contacted the German police for information about him. This was not yet to hand.

Cromwell, during Littlejohn's absence at the hospital, had called on the Tolham police for any available details about the
Orchard Court
flats and
The Limes
. The Inspector there, a youngish, cheerful officer called Toft, seemed quite satisfied with the occupants of the flats, but found those of
The Limes
a bit colourful and intriguing.

‘The owner's an oil tycoon from Texas, who hardly ever visits the place. His wife, who seems fond of it though, is
frequently in residence and brings some queer guests now and then. Artists, spongers, weirdies of all kinds. We see them about the town, but so far none have given us any trouble and we've had no complaints.'

‘Do you know Cairncross, the security man about the place?'

‘Yes. He calls in regularly about the burglar alarms, which are connected with us here. Mrs. Havenith carries a fortune in jewellery about with her and they have the most up-to-date American alarm arrangements there. We have a plan of the wiring here. Care to see it?'

‘I would.'

Cromwell thought it well to inform the young Inspector exactly what his visit was about. He told him of the murder of Charles Blunt.

‘One of the most skilled and careful cracksmen in London. He made one or two early mistakes during what we might call his apprenticeship, and we gaoled him for petty crimes, but he had thoroughly learned his trade since then. His jobs were few and far between, but seemed to have earned him enough to live luxuriously. We were almost sure that quite a list of jewel thefts were his work, but we could never pin them on him. His technique seems to have been to thoroughly acquaint himself with a residence occupied by his victim, the comings and goings of the owners and servants, and the general layout of the house. Then he chose his time and robbed them. At the time of his death he was living in a flat at
Orchard Court
which overlooks
The Limes
. The windows of his flat face the very rooms in which Mrs. Havenith ornaments herself with the jewellery of which, we think, he was eventually going to relieve her.…'

Toft whistled.

‘Under our very noses, sir. We'd no idea what was going on.…'

‘Neither had any of us, Toft. The first we would have heard about it was that Mrs. Havenith had been robbed. The quiet gentlemanly occupant of the flat in Orchard Court would have slipped away, perhaps to the south of France, and lived in luxury until the money ran out again, quietly visiting London now and then to see his aged father and then off again to his retreat. Had he not been murdered he'd probably have got away with it again.'

Toft produced the drawings of the alarm system at
The Limes
. It was a monumental effort, covering every outside entry by doors and windows and all the main inner doors. Except that round one window there was a ring in red ink.

‘What's that, Toft?'

‘That's the weak link in the whole system. It's Mrs. Havenith's bedroom.'

‘So I see. Is it not wired with the rest?'

‘Yes. But there's a cut-out for the windows there. It's just like her. The place is foolproof and then she insists that she can't sleep with the alarm on; it makes her nervous and jumpy. So.…'

‘So, that's the one vulnerable spot in the circuit?'

‘Yes. Apparently she has no idea of money or the value of things. She seems to think there's plenty more money available if she wants it. Which is true I guess. Her husband's rolling in it and gives her whatever she asks for. It's like her to insist on sleeping with the alarm off. She's neurotic. She's like an uncle of mine, who used to set his alarm clock and then couldn't sleep waiting for it to go off.'

‘I guess Cairncross keeps an eye on the weak spot.'

‘Yes, sir. And when she's not occupying the bedroom he sees to it that the alarm's switched on.'

‘Has Cairncross got a similar plan to yours of the alarm system?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where does he keep it?'

‘Locked in his desk in his flat.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘He showed it to me when I called about the security of
The Limes
.'

‘I'd be prepared to bet that Gentleman Charles had examined the flat and all in it, including the chart of the security set-up. What do you think of Cairncross?'

‘He's a bit difficult to deal with. He knows everything and gives nobody else any credit for being as well-informed as he is. But he's an efficient chap. Ex-police, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and then a guard with a security firm. Mr. Havenith took a fancy to him and put him on his staff at, according to Mr. Cairncross, a fabulous salary, although he's never quoted the amount to me.'

‘Does he ever take any time off?'

‘Yes, I meet him about the town from time to time. He has his own flat over a shop in the main street. He once told me he liked to be independent and have a place of his own.'

‘He keeps in touch with you then?'

‘Yes. We try out the security arrangements about once every fortnight. He's very meticulous about it.'

‘Have you met Mrs. Havenith?'

‘No. Nothing practical seems to be in her line. Her life, according to what I hear, is one long round of enjoyment. She leaves anything practical or needing thought to her stepson and man of affairs, Leo. He's Mr. Havenith's son by one of his divorced wives. He's been married, they tell me, four or five times. Leo is quite a capable man when he sets his mind to things, which is very rarely. Our dealings with him have been about motoring offences. He's a specialist in fast cars and has been booked a time or two. We've at last convinced him that money and smart lawyers won't
prevent him losing his driving licence next time he misbehaves.'

‘Is it true that there's gossip about his relations with his stepmother?'

Toft coughed behind his hand.

‘I wouldn't like you to take this for gospel, sir. There's no proof and you know how people talk. But it is said that she's his mistress. What old Havenith would say if he knew I can't even guess. But, as an expert in divorce, I'm sure he'll know what to do. Leo is a good-looking man and, I believe, a bit older than his stepmother.'

‘You'll keep your eyes open then, Toft, and tell your men to do the same. I think our attentions will have to be transferred to
The Limes
from
Orchard Court
very shortly and, if necessary, we'll have to get a search warrant for
The Limes
. I don't think Mrs. Havenith will welcome our attentions there.'

‘I don't know, sir. If the arrival of the police gives her a new thrill she may prove very accommodating.'

‘We'll have to see. Meanwhile, there's one thing all of us must remember; the culprit in this case is a vicious killer and we've got to lay our hands on him before he does any more damage.'

And he told Toft about Hassock's misadventure and left him duly impressed.

‘Good morning, Tom.…'

Cromwell greeted Littlejohn with his usual cheerful smile.

‘Morning, Bob. What's good about it?'

For the most part he was right.

It was raining cats and dogs outside and even crossing from the car park to his office Littlejohn had got almost wet through.

The files on his desk were equally depressing. The Hamburg police had no news about Kaltbad. All they could say was that two vans of furniture were waiting on the docks for attention by an owner of that name and hadn't yet been claimed. Kaltbad had fled from Hamburg before the war and the records, attenuated by bombing and other wartime disasters, were incomplete and contained nothing under ‘Kaltbad'. An old retainer of the police records office, now on pension, had, however, sworn that a Kaltbad had once passed through his hands before the war and he was almost certain that he was a fence. They had never been able to pin any crime on him, but were very near it when Kaltbad vanished and was said to have fled to England. He was a Jew, so that was not to be wondered at in the circumstances
which had then prevailed in Germany. The report stated that the informant's memory was uncertain. Inquiries continuing.

‘This may be the missing fence. We could never find out how Blunt disposed of his loot, if any.'

‘But wasn't Kaltbad a trombone merchant or something of that kind?'

‘Quite a good front for a fence, although, judging from the size of his house, he was fairly well-off. I don't think there's much profit in selling brass instruments, do you?'

‘I wonder if Hassock knew anything about him. According to the latest bulletin he's making good progress. As a matter of fact, the reason I'm here is to tell you he's asking for you again, Tom. His wife's been on the phone already inquiring if he's fit to move. She told the hospital that although she's a broken reed she's sure she can look after him better than they can, and she wants him home. There was a report from the Swiss police, too. Their inquiries about numbered accounts and secret security boxes were like the mills of the gods. So far, they had no helpful information at all. No. QZ53647 might mean anything and would probably resemble a needle in a haystack.'