Murder Adrift (3 page)

‘Thanks . . . But you'll be our guest tonight.'

Feltham beamed. The expenses side of the matter was all that worried him and now that was solved.

‘Delighted!! Thanks a lot.'

Littlejohn left the young men together and went to his room, had a shower and telephoned to his wife. By that time dinner was served.

The dining-room, decorated with the portraits of ships and mariners, was full. Almost at a glance you could pick out the important customers. Feltham pointed out the mayor.

‘That's Pollitt, the mayor, sitting there in the corner to
your right. The man with him is Poston. He's a millionaire who arrived in his yacht this afternoon. . . .'

The fawning attention being paid by the waiters, in short white coats, like ships' stewards, to the two men had already led Littlejohn to guess as much. The mayor kept glancing in Littlejohn's direction as though trying to make up his mind about something. Finally, after a word with his guest, he rose and crossed the room to Littlejohn. He was a small, portly, baby-faced man, all smiles. He bounced across the floor.

‘Excuse me. Name's Pollitt, mayor of Fordinghurst. Are you Chief Superintendent Littlejohn? I've heard quite a lot about you and I'm very glad such a distinguished detective has been put in charge of the Todd affair. A sorry business. I just wanted to bid you welcome to our town and to say that if I could be of any help you mustn't hesitate to call on me. . . . '

Littlejohn couldn't get a word in edgeways. All eyes were turned in his direction and the mayor was well aware of it. He wanted badly to invite Littlejohn to his table, but Pollitt was a builder and Poston was discussing the erection of a super-bungalow in the vicinity.

‘We've almost finished our meal, otherwise I'd have invited you to join us at our table. . . . '

Littlejohn introduced Hopkinson to him. He apparently knew Feltham and gave him a short nod, as though he was small fry.

‘Are they looking well after you here . . .?'

The mayor glanced round the table and finding the meal not yet spread snapped his fingers at the head waiter who almost took wings to get there.

‘Albert . . . This is Chief Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard. Look well after him . . . '

Albert assured the mayor that he would do so and at once set a number of his underlings in motion to prepare for and serve the meal. They bustled about and laid an extraordinary cavalcade of plates about the table.

The mayor shook hands with Littlejohn again.

‘You're staying here? I'll get in touch with you, sir. We must dine together very shortly. . . . Pleased to meet you . . . '

He bounced back to his table, well satisfied with the impression he thought he'd created on the rest of the assembly.

Feltham looked put-out. He resented being given short shrift.

‘Pompous ass. . . . You'd think he was Lord Mayor of London.'

The meal began. The
Trident
specialised in sea foods and Albert recommended fresh prawns and then local salmon. This was followed by Baba au Rhum and Littlejohn was sure that had they dared they'd have included fish in the sweet as well. As it was, the rum added yet another nautical touch. As the meal progressed, Feltham recovered his high spirits.

‘If there's anything you want to know about the town or locality, just say the word. I spend half my working time in Fordinghurst and there's not much goes on that I don't know about.'

He cast an eye around the dining-room.

‘Some of the things I could tell you about one or two of those here tonight would surprise you . . .'

‘Let's confine ourselves to the case we have in hand, shall we? Tell us something about the Todd family.'

They had reached the coffee stage and Feltham had ordered a brandy for himself. He made a pantomime of warming the balloon glass in his hands, swinging the liquid
round and round and sniffing at it. Then he took a sip like a hen drinking, and made a chupping noise.

‘That's an easy one. Do you want the lot from old man Ephraim's time?'

‘Yes; start at the beginning.'

There was so much noise going on in the room as the drinks warmed up the diners that the trio at Littlejohn's table had to lean forward to hear one another, like a group of plotters.

‘I'll make it brief. I'll have to be getting along. Won't do to let the grass grow under my feet at a time like this, will it? Old Ephraim Todd, father of the dead man, started here as a young man and kept a pub on the waterfront. It has been pulled down to make room for the crane they erected to handle container traffic. That was before my time, of course. From selling beer Ephraim turned to merchanting wine. I've no doubt he got his start by smuggling. Quite a lot used to go on here.'

He waved his hand, taking in the lot in a gesture.

‘He imported in bulk and bottled and blended it and delivered it in the neighbourhood at first. Then his business grew, he left the pub and transferred himself to a warehouse behind the quay. He was on a good thing and he grew rich and extended his works and plant and bought a big house on the fringe of the town. His wife and Ken, who's a bachelor, live there still, and Heck with his family occupied a flat there on an upper floor. A big barn of a place, with several acres of trees and parkland round it. It was built by a local man who went to Australia and made a fortune in the gold rush. Ephraim married quite above his class. She was a good-looking, dashing girl; the daughter of the Dean of Portwich. They eloped; there was a hell of a row, and a sensation locally. They had two sons and
Ephraim died when they were just boys. His wife changed her way of life after that and became serious, took over the business and made a real go of it. She's still alive, in her eighties, and until a few years ago remained boss of the company and dominated her two sons, especially Ken. Ken's a good business man and has increased the turnover and added to the family fortunes. Heck was another matter. He revolted against the tyranny of his mother and kicked over the traces. He was in the firm and, as often happens to black sheep, his mother liked him the best. She got him out of a few scrapes, mostly with women. He was a petticoat chaser. Fast cars and fast women. Everybody liked him, though. He had a way with him. . . .'

Feltham looked at his watch.

‘Nine o'clock! I'll have to be getting along. I'd like you to read an article I once wrote about the Todd family. It didn't wash any dirty linen, of course, but it will give you an idea of the family background. I'll bring a copy with me tomorrow. I must confess this case has got me baffled. I can't think of anybody who'd want to murder Heck even if he did damage the reputation of certain women in the locality. After all, there's always one or two rips in every town, but they don't get murdered for it, do they?'

He looked straight at Littlejohn with earnest bleary eyes.

The room was almost empty now and the waiters were busy clearing up the tables. One or two diners looked ready to pause and speak to Littlejohn as they passed, but seeing Feltham decided against it. It was obvious the reporter was the local gas-bag whom they seemed to wish to avoid.

Littlejohn realised that the meeting with Feltham had been a flop. He was either keeping back information for his professional purposes or else he hadn't much idea about the case and hoped to pump the police for his copy.

Littlejohn was just ready to break up the party when two newcomers entered. Feltham got excited.

‘That's Ken Todd and Richards, his lawyer. Shall I introduce you before I go?'

‘No, thanks. This is hardly the time. We'll not keep you from your duties. . . . '

Feltham looked disappointed. This might have been a chance of some good information. Littlejohn was on his feet.

‘Give your friend a drink at the bar,' he said to Hopkinson, ‘and I'll attend to the bill here. . . . '

He jerked his head commandingly at Hopkinson who steered Feltham out. Littlejohn sat back and surveyed the wreck of the feast.

Well, well.

The mayor was peering round the dining-room door. He must have got rid of his client and was hunting for Littlejohn to give him another welcome to Fordinghurst. He had been drinking at the bar and was very convivial. His bounce had left him, and he needed to steer a steady course. On his way he suddenly came upon Ken Todd and his companion, starting on a belated first course. He tottered uncertainly and then made for their table. Littlejohn watched him shaking Todd by the hand and whispering what must have been condolences.

Littlejohn tried to make a quiet exit, but Mayor Pollitt was not going to miss this chance.

‘Chief Superintendent!' he piped in his reedy voice. ‘Allow me . . . '

It should have been a dramatic meeting between Littlejohn and the dead man's brother. Instead it was comic. The mayor, half drunk, behaving as though they were already attending the funeral, and Ken Todd and his friend,
disturbed at their business, glaring at the mayor for intruding and then looking half-apologetically at Littlejohn, as though assuring him that they weren't to blame for the scene. They were obviously discussing matters arising from the death of Heck.

The mayor prattled away as if life and death depended on what he was saying.

‘Allow me to introduce Chief Inspector . . . beg pardon, Chief Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard. We were determined that you should have the best brains in the country for this sad case. . . .'

Kenneth Todd ignored the mayor, who looked from one to the other of them smiling awkwardly wondering, in a fuddled sort of way, what he'd done wrong.

‘Glad to meet you, Littlejohn. . . . '

He gave him a long cold hand.

He introduced his companion.

‘Glyn Richards, my lawyer. . . . '

Todd was tall and lean, with a long serious face, already lined, and thin grey hair. He looked more cut out for an ascetic priest than a wine merchant. His companion was younger, tall, florid, with a close-shaven lip and the side-whiskers of an old-fashioned coachman or butler.

They all seemed to have little to say to each other. Even the mayor realised the gaffe he had made and stood there licking his lips nervously. He couldn't even offer anybody a drink with Todd and Richards half-way through their meal.

‘I just thought it my duty to see that you and the Chief Superintendent knew one another. . . .'

And then a fury of indignation seized the mayor.

‘After all, I am responsible for the morale, the well-being, of this town and it is up to me to see that this crime
is solved as quickly as possible. People are afraid . . . Some are saying it is the work of a criminal lunatic and some, even now, are staying indoors after dark. . . .'

With that, Mr. Pollitt turned on his heel and made for the door in as dignified a way as possible.

Kenneth Todd shrugged his shoulders.

‘Mr. Mayor seems to be losing his head under the strain. All of us are anxious to see the end of this affair, most of all me. Meanwhile, please excuse his outburst. Perhaps you and I, Chief Superintendent, could meet tomorrow to discuss matters. I am quite at your service and will be in my office all day if you care to call there. It is late now and I hope you will excuse us if we get on with our meal. . . .'

‘Of course. I'm sorry you have been disturbed. Good night.'

But before he reached the door, the anxious head of Hopkinson appeared round it. He hurried to Littlejohn.

‘There's a police sergeant waiting to see you in the hall, sir. They've found the dinghy in a place called Strine Cove, some distance round the coast. They've towed her in to Portwich where the technical men are examining her. The sergeant wishes to know if you have any instructions?'

‘Not at present, thanks, Hoppy. I've had enough instructions for one night. I'm going to bed now.'

Hopkinson looked surprised. He glanced anxiously at the book in his hand in which he'd been making notes. Then he put it in his pocket.

The sergeant was standing in the hall waiting for the results of his visit. Littlejohn went to him, thanked him for his report and bade him good night. The sergeant, who must have been expecting exciting new moves following the information, also looked surprised and then smiled broadly and took his leave.

‘He's a cool one' he told the night staff. ‘After I broke the news, he thanked me and went straight to bed.'

At the bar, the mayor was trying to impress the stragglers.

‘I've put my foot down. I told them to get a move on. This is a murder, not a picinic. . . .'

‘Thass right,' said a sympathiser, and bought him a double brandy.

The Town Hall clock was striking eight when Littlejohn awoke. Then the carillon battled hesitantly through
All Things Bright and Beautiful.
He hadn't slept very well, because the clock chimed the quarters and struck the hours all through the night. Although Littlejohn didn't know it, there was contention going on between the regulars of the
Trident
and the burgesses of Fordinghurst; the former agitating for the stoppage of the clock during the hours of darkness and the latter, with the exception of the mayor, stubbornly set against any silencing of what had been going on for over 300 years.

When Littlejohn looked down from his window the sun was shining over the port. Already some of the boats had left and the white sails of early risers were visible on the horizon. On some of the other craft, still tied up, men were tinkering about making ready for off and the crane was busy hoisting containers from a ship which had arrived during the night.

On his way to breakfast he met a new arrival, a sunburnt hearty man who was obviously in on the tide and
was shouting greetings familiarly to the staff and anyone else interested.

‘Here we are again. . . .'

There were dregs of coffee and the remains of bacon and eggs on the cup and plate still on Littlejohn's table. Albert arrived solicitously brandishing a menu card.