Devious Murder (2 page)

There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Hassock seemed to be brooding on his bad luck again for some reason. He was jealous and suspicious and wondered what lay behind
Littlejohn's offer of help. He was sure there was a fly in the ointment somewhere.

‘Very good, sir. We'll appreciate your help. The path lab report is in. Blunt had been dead less than an hour when we found him. Do you want to see the body and the contents of his pockets?'

‘Yes. Just to refresh my memory about what Blunt looked like. I'll call at the lab this morning.'

‘Shall I join you there?'

‘Thanks for the offer. But you're busy, I know. I'll go alone.'

‘Very good, sir.'

Littlejohn rang down for a car and called at the central pathological laboratory. A technician named Riley had been on the Blunt job. He and Littlejohn were good friends. Dr. Riley was a first-class expert and lectured on forensic medicine at the university. He also played a good deal of snooker at which he had defeated Littlejohn once or twice at the police handicaps.

‘Want to see the body, Tom?'

Riley telephoned to the appropriate department and they went down to the catacombs together.

Cleaned up and in a proper light, Charles Blunt didn't look his age. There was a repose on his face quite foreign to the violent way in which he had met his death. Littlejohn and Riley stood chatting about Blunt and his affairs like two old friends of the dead man composing a complimentary obituary.

‘He must have been killed not long before you found him. Between ten and eleven o'clock. Death must have come suddenly,' said Riley. ‘There are no signs of a struggle. He'd been given a violent blow which cracked his skull and did considerable brain damage. Whoever did it was determined about it. He hit him twice again after the fatal one. It must
surely have been done in a fit of rage. He probably wasn't killed where they found him. But we can't be sure in view of the pouring rain. We'll let you have a full report after we've gone thoroughly over his clothes and had a look at his innards.…'

The contents of Charles's pockets were there for examination. A gold cigarette case and lighter, an elegant key-ring on a silver chain, and a gold cigar-cutter. They were in keeping with his nickname of Gentleman Charles. Small change, a penknife, an expensive fountain pen and pencil, a comb and a packet of indigestion tablets.… Then a note case containing £255 in notes and nothing else. In his usual secretive way Charles had not carried correspondence or any evidence of his identity about with him. Not even a driving licence.

‘Did you know him, Fred?'

‘No. Hassock said you'd identified him and gave us his name. He's on the records for petty larceny, but doesn't seem to have come our way for many years. I wonder what he was doing meanwhile.…'

‘Probably other jobs for which he was never laid by the heels. He was a careful, methodical man and it's my guess he confined himself in late years to one big job at a time, performed it carefully, and then lived opulently on the proceeds. I'm going to take a semi-official interest in this case and find out about Charles's way of life in recent years.'

‘Hassock seems a bit peeved at your being mixed up in the case. He probably thinks it's just another of his bad-luck turns your discovering the body. To hear him talk, his luck's always that way. Just plain bad. It's got in the way of his promotion, he says. It's an obsession. What's your next move?'

‘I don't know whether or not Charles ever married. When I knew him in the early days he was living with his
father to whom he was devoted. I'm going to find out if ‘dad', as Charles called him, is still alive. If so, he must be well past 80.…'

Littlejohn found the building where Charles's father once lived in Camberwell had been demolished and a new estate built in its place. The neighbourhood was so altered that it was difficult to know where to start making inquiries about Alfred Blunt. There was a bright new pub at one corner of the property, the
Duke of York
, which had replaced the old one of the same name. Littlejohn entered and ordered a pint of beer.

The landlord of the
Duke of York
had been the licensee of the former public house, now demolished, and he looked it. He was like an old piece of furniture transferred to a brand new house and seeming uncomfortable for the change. He was an old hand at the game, however.

‘You from the police?' he asked as he drew the beer. He must have had a clear conscience, however, for when Littlejohn agreed he remained unperturbed and not in the least curious.

‘I'm trying to find Alfred Blunt, who used to have rooms in a tenement in Mafeking Street. Do you remember him?'

‘Yes. Everybody round here remembers Alf. A decent old boy. French polisher.…'

The landlord, who was smoking a cigarette, indulged in a fit of hacking coughing without removing it, and gave Littlejohn the rest of the information in between spasms of panting and hawking.

‘Where did he go when they pulled down his lodgings?'

‘Afton Lodge.'

Littlejohn raised his eyebrows.

‘Afton Lodge … Old Folk's Home.…'

‘Where's that?'

The landlord succeeded in turning off his cough and
explained. He even drew a map of the district on the marble counter with his forefinger dipped in a slop of beer.

‘Was he one of your customers?'

‘Yes. He still comes in now and then when he draws his pension. He's over 80, but still active and cheerful. What's Alf been up to? Nothing agin the law, I know that for sure.'

‘Nothing wrong, as you say. We just want some information from him.'

The landlord let it go at that, and as he seemed to be settling down for another session of his cough Littlejohn thanked him and went on his way to Afton Lodge.

It was a modern building on the site of a previous mansion, a pleasant place with a large garden in which the inmates were strolling or standing talking in small knots. Everybody seemed cheerful, and they greeted Littlejohn as he passed as though they had known him all his life. It was too damp and cold to sit out in the watery sun, but they didn't seem to mind.

Littlejohn asked for the matron and told her the purpose of his call. She was a large smiling woman, but the news obviously made her unhappy.

‘Poor Mr. Blunt. This is going to upset him. He and his son were very close. I'll have him called. He's probably in the billiards room. He's the champion of this place at billiards. He loves teaching the other men the game and going over his memories of it. You'd better break it to him gently. Charles used to visit him regularly.'

She left him in a small room set aside for visitors and soon returned with Alfred Blunt. He had not changed much since Littlejohn had met him years ago. A little, chubby man with a healthy pink complexion and a mop of silky white hair. He gave Littlejohn a surprised anxious look, as though expecting some bad news. Littlejohn offered him his hand and Blunt took it in an uncertain grip.

‘I know you, don't I? Is it about Charles? He's not been …?'

He paused as though short of words to express his confused feelings.

‘Shall we sit down, Mr. Blunt?'

‘I'd rather not, if you don't mind. These deep armchairs are a bit awkward for old bones. Once down in them you've a job at my age to get on your feet again. Is Charles in trouble with the police? There must be some mistake.…'

It was Littlejohn's turn to seek for words. He was very moved by the old man's growing distress.

‘Has there been an accident or something?'

‘I'm sorry, Mr. Blunt, but he's dead.'

The anxiety faded from the old man's face and a look of resignation, the refuge of the unfortunate, took its place.

‘What happened? Tell me how it happened. I can take it.'

He gave Littlejohn a pleading look but showed no physical reaction to the news. No tears, no complaints, or even a change of colour.

‘He was murdered yesterday.'

‘Who did it?'

He showed no anger.

‘We don't know, but we'll find out.'

‘Where?'

‘I found his body in Hampstead.'

‘Hampstead! What was he doing there?'

‘We think he met his death elsewhere. I happened to be out with the dog late at night and found him.'

‘But why did they kill him? He was always a good son. Wouldn't do anybody a bad turn. Always a gentleman. He got it from his mother, who was a class above me, but we got on happily together.'

Littlejohn knew it well. He and Charles had passed time
and talk together long ago when Charles was less adept at avoiding the police.

The matron entered.

‘Is everything all right?'

Littlejohn nodded. It was far from right, but what else could he do?

‘I'm sorry, Mr. Blunt. Why don't you both sit down and I'll bring you a cup of tea?'

‘I don't want to sit down. I'm better on my two feet. But thank you all the same.'

‘I'll leave you together then. You'll find me in the office if you need me.'

‘Where is Charles now? In the mortuary?'

‘You'll be able to see him when you wish.'

‘I remember you, Mr. Littlejohn. You were always straight up and down.'

He spoke with a North Country voice and idiom.

‘As I feel just now, I'd rather not see him. I'd rather remember him as I knew him best, happy and alive. You'll see that he's decently treated? The funeral and such, I mean. His mother's buried in Tamworth. He ought to go there.…'

‘I'll see to the arrangements, Mr. Blunt, and if you feel you can make the journey there I'll go with you. Just let me know when you've made up your mind about things. Matron will get in touch with me.'

‘Why? That's what I want to know. Why did somebody do this?'

‘Could you answer one or two questions?'

‘Why not? I want to help. I've not much time left myself, but I thought Charles would be here at the end. Now I'm left on my own. Not a single one left of those I knew.'

He looked round blankly as though seeking comfort somewhere. Then he pulled himself together.

‘What did you want to know, Mr. Littlejohn?'

‘When did you last see Charles?'

‘On my birthday. The fourth of last month. I was 84. We had a laugh about it. Charles was 48. He never forgot my birthday, Mr. Littlejohn. Or to bring me some tobacco when he came.'

‘Did he say anything about what he was doing? Where he was living?'

‘No more than usual. He'd moved his flat again. I could never understand why a steady boy like Charles could never settle down properly. Why couldn't he have married a nice girl and got a proper home of his own? He seemed to change his lodgings every six months. As far as I know, women didn't appeal to him. I used to ask him why he didn't settle. He'd say he wasn't made that way.'

‘Did he give you his new address?'

The old man took a card from his inside pocket and passed it across.

‘That's the latest. I always have it on a postcard, so that if anything happened to me sudden-like they'd find it quickly and let Charles know. I promised him faithfully, as I always do, not under any circumstances to tell anybody where he's living. He said he wanted one place, at least, where he could rest and be quiet without being disturbed. Now he's dead, I reckon there's no harm in telling you. You'll have to know, won't you?'

Flat 5, Orchard Mansions, Tolham, Kent.

‘Tolham, wasn't it, Mr. Littlejohn? Last year it was the West End. A flat in Curzon Street. He'd have found it a change out in Kent.

‘What did you talk about when he was last here?'

‘He didn't say much about what he did with his time. He had a good job. A representative, he called it. Never short of money and always dressed well and looked after
himself. He said the pay was good and he got commission as well as his salary. He was generous to me.'

Then, as though the ice had broken and he had only just realised what had happened, the old man sagged, sat down in a chair and wept bitterly.

The case of Charles Blunt had now passed from the district police to the C.I.D. Headquarters at Scotland Yard. There it fell under the supervision of Superintendent Cromwell, Littlejohn's old friend and colleague, which made it easier for the Chief Superintendent to retain his interest in the affair. They discussed the case together.

‘The motive puzzles me,' said Littlejohn, ‘Charles was a lone wolf when I knew him. I remember interviewing him here on the two cases of petty larceny on which we managed to arrest him. He was quiet and laconic in answering questions. Never wasted a word. We never managed to trace that he'd any associates, not even a fence for the goods he'd lifted. And, as far as I know, he never got mixed up with any gang. If this is a gang killing he must have trespassed on someone else's preserves. But that's not true to Charles's form.'

‘I know, Tom. We've often suspected that he was working in the big stuff and thought he was at the bottom of several substantial jewellery robberies, but we've never been able to pin anything on him. We've searched his rooms and followed him about, but we've never caught him off the
straight and narrow path. We've pulled him in and questioned him. He always replied civilly in his quiet monosyllabic fashion. And when we were sure he was connected with certain crimes he managed to evade us. I always felt a sneaking respect for him. And now somebody has killed him and flung him by the roadside like a dead dog.'

‘I know, Bob. I used to admire him and his cool, polite, brief manner of answering questions. One couldn't help liking his aplomb. He was quite a man. And the way he looked after his old father too. The old man gave me his address. It's in Tolham. Now what would a townee like Charles want with a flat in Kent? We'd better go down there and see.…'