Murder Adrift (10 page)

The chef looked blankly about him, as though he'd been beaten up himself.

‘Like he is now,' he said finally.

‘There doesn't seem to be any damage to the skull. We'd better get him indoors. We can't leave him like this.'

The sergeant saluted automatically.

‘Very good, sir.'

A number of the spectators volunteered to help.

‘Has his wife been told?'

‘No. We haven't disturbed her, yet. She's a bit nervous . . . hysterical, if I might say so.'

The sergeant coughed apologetically, as though somehow he were responsible for her temperament.

Two or three people from the crowd hurried to the front door and struggled among themselves to ring the bell. There was a pause and then a light appeared at an upper window. The window was opened and a head crowned with a hairnet and a lot of curling rollers was thrust out.

‘Who is it?'

The sergeant answered in his most sympathetic voice.

‘Can you come down, Mrs. Pollitt. Your husband is here. He's . . . he's . . . he's not very well.'

‘Is he drunk?'

‘Please come down.'

A pause, and then the front door opened emitting a flood of light.

Mrs. Pollitt, who had flung a dressing-gown over her nightdress, appeared and then fluttered down the path. When she saw her husband lying there she made more noise than the rest put together. She might have been the one who'd been assaulted.

‘Is he dead?'

‘No. Let's bring him indoors.'

They hoisted Mr. Pollitt, still moaning, into a steady horizontal position and carried him in.

‘In there. . . .'

They switched on the lights in the front room. It must have been the dining-room, for there was a large mahogany table with chairs arranged around it as though set out for a party. There was no couch, so they laid him out on the table like a corpse waiting for the undertakers.

The doctor arrived, bleary-eyed, hastily dressed, with his pyjama jacket showing under his coat. He looked at Mr. Pollitt and then at Littlejohn, whom he recognised, for he had been present at the dinner.

‘Another victim? How many more?'

He bent over the mayor and examined the wound. Then he straightened himself and looked at Littlejohn again.

‘Queer sort of wound. More like a fall than a blow. He'd shipped a fair amount of liquor at the dinner, but I met him in the hall as we were going home. He didn't seem drunk. I wonder. . . .'

He turned to the rest of the party, which had been sorted out by the sergeant and consisted of a constable who had just arrived, the chef, and the three men who'd carried the victim in.

‘Who found him?'

The chef, who had already told his story to the police, the reporters, Mrs. Pollitt and whoever else would listen, started all over again.

‘I'm an under-chef at the
Trident
. . . .You know me, doctor. I'm one of your patients. . . .'

The doctor listened as he opened his bag and took out some dressings. He wiped and dressed the wounds as he got the story.

Mrs. Pollitt started to moan again.

‘Will he have to go to hospital? Is it serious? Will he recover . . .?'

Another woman then appeared at the door. She was elderly and wore a heavy dressing-gown over a long nightdress. Her white hair was dishevelled and she seemed very annoyed. She looked at the small crowd and at the body on the table.

‘What's the matter with Sam? Drunk again?'

It was Mr. Pollitt's aged mother. She was quite unperturbed by the mayor's condition, as though used to such events. They persuaded her to take Mrs. Pollitt to bed and the doctor gave her some tablets to keep both of them quiet.

‘He'll be all right in a day or two.'

The doctor re-assured them and finished his work.

‘Is he unconscious, doctor?'

‘No. It's just shock.'

He took Mr. Pollitt by the shoulders and shook him.

‘Mr. Pollitt!'

The mayor groaned and opened his eyes. Then he sat up and looked around him.

‘Where am I?'

The doctor looked at his hands and then left the room, apparently to wash them, for they heard him running
water in what must have been the kitchen at the back. On his return he spoke to Littlejohn.

‘You can question him if you like, now. He's mainly suffering from shock. As for the rest, they're little more than abrasions. How he got them is your business.'

Littlejohn turned to the mayor and then helped him off the table to a chair, which was more comfortable.

‘Now, Mr. Mayor, tell me all about it. The doctor says you'll soon be all right. Nothing to worry about.'

Mr. Pollitt had tears in his eyes. They ran down his cheeks and he didn't seem to mind.

‘Are you the detective from Scotland Yard?'

‘That's right, sir. We met today. How do you feel?'

‘A bit better. But he hit me a dreadful blow. I walked home from the dinner. I felt I needed a breath of fresh air after all the smoke and fug. My head's bad and the back of my neck feels to have been broken. Does the doctor say. . .?'

‘He says you'll be all right in a day or two. You've had a shock.'

‘I started out for home. After I left the quay there was nobody about. Then, as I got to my own gate, I heard soft footsteps and before I knew where I was, he was at me.'

‘Did you see him?'

‘No. It all came so suddenly that before I knew what was happening I must have passed out. He hit me hard.'

‘Did he come behind you, or were you face to face?'

‘He stood in front of me, but I couldn't see him in the dark.'

He touched his forehead where the doctor had plastered a wad of bandage. He winced.

‘He hit me and I fell. I can't have gone quite unconscious right away because I heard heavy footsteps approaching and I tried to get up but I couldn't and then I
knew nothing more till I found myself here with the doctor speaking to me. I thought it was all over with me. I suppose it's the same chap who killed Heck Todd?'

‘You didn't get an impression of what the man was like?'

‘No. I didn't even see him. He must have heard somebody approaching. Otherwise, he might have finished me off.'

‘Why should anybody want to do that, sir?'

Mr. Pollitt shed more tears.

‘I don't know, Chief Superintendent. I've always tried to be decent and do my best for the town and my fellow citizens. Why else should they make me mayor?'

‘Do you think anybody followed you home after the dinner?'

‘I don't know. There were plenty of people about on the quayside in front of the
Trident.
They were all saying good-night and getting out their cars to go home. But why should anybody do that and then try to kill me? We'd all had a good night together. This has spoiled it all. . . .'

The doctor was back and with him the deputy mayor, a man called Parsons.

‘What's going on?' asked Mr. Parsons.

The doctor had had quite enough already.

‘You'd better ask Mr. Pollitt. He's a lot better and well able to answer your questions himself.'

Mr. Pollitt began to weep again when he saw his deputy. It was as if he'd found his long-lost brother after great tribulation.

‘I'm so glad to see you, Lionel. . . .'

The doctor placed some pink tablets on the table.

‘Put him to bed, Lionel, and give him these tablets to make him sleep. I'll see him in the morning.'

And with that he left and took Littlejohn with him.

When Littlejohn entered the
Trident
he found the phone boxes occupied by the London reporters. One of them was so excited that he could hear all he said.

‘Terror Strikes again in Fordinghurst . . .

A Homicidal Maniac . . . Question Mark . . .

The weather had changed overnight. Now it was raining steadily, and the wind was driving it almost horizontal. The few figures passing on the waterfront hurried along about their business leaning heavily against the gusts which hit them and almost knocked them off their feet. The tide was out and the boats tied up in the river were surrounded by mud.

The previous night's adventures had left Littlejohn with little inclination for work, or for a heavy breakfast. He stood at the window of his room watching the gulls riding on the wind like gliders.

Suddenly Hopkinson appeared round the corner. Presumably he had been visiting the police station, where he seemed to think it was his duty to call and ask for any news they had obtained overnight. His hat was pulled down over his ears and he held his raincoat closely as he battled with the wind. Littlejohn met him as he entered the hotel.

‘Good morning, sir. I just called at the police station to ask if they'd had a good night. They told me about the attack on the mayor. It seems you were in the middle of it all.'

‘Yes. By the time it was over the hotel was quiet and you were presumably asleep. I thought I'd wait until morning to put you in the picture. Have you had breakfast?'

Of course, Hopkinson had; probably a heavy meal eaten with his usual gusto.

‘Come and have some coffee whilst I have mine, then, and we'll exchange information about our adventures at last evening's dinner.'

Hopkinson took his loose-leaf notebook and placed it on the table. Apparently he had written up in it full details of his encounter with J. J. Dawson, all they had said to each other and his own impressions and comments on the interviews. Either he had stayed up later after retiring the night before or else got up very early, for his record covered many pages. Littlejohn had finished his frugal breakfast before the recital ended.

‘I'm sorry that I haven't put my impressions of my encounter with Lever in as orderly and comprehensive a manner as yours, Hopkinson, but, with the exception of the fact that Dawson was well lubricated with alcohol, whereas Lever had drunk only mineral water, your information tallies very closely with mine.'

‘Then, it would seem, each confirms the other's tale . . .?'

‘In a way, yes. It also suggests that they've talked all this over before we came on the scene and arranged what they'd tell us and, perhaps, what they'd withhold. Why should they do that?'

‘Are you suggesting, sir, they might have something to do with the crime?'

‘Or that, as old servants of the company and family, they don't wish to divulge family secrets or anything which might incriminate the Todds. Try to get to know a little
more about them. The police here might help you there, or some chatterbox at the bar. But first I want you to come with me sick-visiting his worship the mayor. He was so confused and emotional last night that I couldn't get a coherent statement from him. He'll probably be better this morning. We'll go right away.'

There was an interruption, however. In their enthusiasm for modern things the directors of the
Trident
had installed a loud-speaker, controlled from the reception office, in each of the principal rooms. This contraption now came into operation like a fog-horn.

‘If Chief Superintendent Littlejohn is in the hotel will he kindly take a telephone call at the reception desk . . .?'

The alarm was sounded once again for good measure.

Littlejohn reported as requested and was told his call was in Cabin No. 1.

The voice was low and hurried and he couldn't make out what the caller was saying.

‘Please speak louder . . . I can't . . .'

The voice was raised slightly.

‘I must see you right away. This is Mrs. Hector Todd. Can you call here as soon as possible? Insist on seeing me . . . Insist. . . .'

The voice died away and there was a click as the line went dead.

Littlejohn slowly replaced the instrument.

Here was a matter for careful treatment. Of course, the local police had plainly hinted that anything concerning the Todds should be handled with discretion, but this was something tricky. Was Mrs. Hector's telephoning unknown to old Mrs. Todd? The brief message had a cloak-and-dagger flavour. A cry for help from someone imprisoned! Was the old lady keeping Lucy, Heck's widow, out of the
way of the police? If so, a further call at the Big House might be full of difficulties.

He told Hopkinson what had happened.

‘I think we'll see what her doctor has to say about Mrs. Hector Todd. I don't know who's her doctor, but I met Dr. Macmannus last night at Pollitt's. We'll try him first.'

The doctor lived in a gracious old Georgian house at the end of a row almost facing Pollitt's. It had a fine doorway and three storeys with plain sash windows overlooking the High Street. This had obviously been a doctor's residence for a long time; there remained on the door frame a couple of well-polished brass bell-knobs, one marked
Night,
and the funnel of a speaking-tube now probably out of commission. Then a simple modern brass plate,
Dr. Macmannus.
Littlejohn tugged at one of the knobs and they could hear the clang of a bell somewhere far inside the building. A girl in a white coat answered it right away. She seemed surprised to find him there.

‘Is the doctor in?'

‘The surgery entrance is just round the corner'.

She paused.

‘Is it a professional call?'

Littlejohn handed her his card, which she read and then she stared at him apprehensively as though she saw something ominous in the visit.

‘Please come in. . . .'

A large sombre hall illuminated only by the broad fanlight over the door. The girl led them to a room on the right, offered them seats and asked them to wait. Hopkinson suddenly looked bemused. Littlejohn thought he was overawed by the house or the task in hand. But it was nothing of the kind. It was the girl in the white coat
who caused it. When the case was ended he contrived to take her out to dinner and eventually married her. But that does not concern us here.