Death on the Last Train (21 page)

Ada gave Littlejohn a nasty look as though suspecting
him of trying to lead Hiss astray, and then turned her melting china-blue eyes on Lambert in a look of questioning beatitude.

“I won't want anythin' more tonight, thank you, Ada, very much.”

Mrs. Scattermole approached the bed and gave Lambert a benedictive peck on the top of his head, which made him blush right to the top of the bedclothes. Even his hands clutching the sheets turned red. Then she withdrew like one who has done the job properly.

Hiss cleared his throat.

“You're very kind, Mr. Littlejohn.”

“Now get a good night's rest … Anything you want to say to me or anything I can do …?”

“Well … ahem …”

Hiss coughed again and lowered his eyes, fixing them on an alarm clock which kept up a steady tick-tack all the while.

“Well … I've a friend … A lady, who might be anxious about me when she hears what's happened. I mean, my collapsin' at the concert, like. She was there, you see, and …”

“You'd like me to give her a message?”

Littlejohn knew what was coming. Bessie Emmott had been there and as far as he had been able to see, hadn't taken much interest in Hiss or his performance. In fact, she'd left before the end of
Tannhäuser
.

“She's Miss Bessie Emmott and she lives at …”

“I know where she lives …”

“You know? Good. Then would you mind tellin' her that I said everythin's all right? She's not to worry … Everythin's all right.”

“Just that?”

“Yes. And if she could find time to call in just for a minute to visit a sick friend, I'd be very glad …”

Littlejohn shuddered to think of the reception in store for Bessie and the commotion her arrival would cause in the ranks of Horeb.

“I'll see she gets the message. But it's a bit late now, isn't it?”

“Yes. Doesn't matter tonight. To-morrow mornin', first thing, would do.”

“Right. To-morrow then. Everything's all right and you'd welcome a call.”

“Yes. Very good of you, Inspector. Very good … I'd do the same for you …”

“Don't mention it, Mr. Hiss. And now sleep well. Goodnight.”

Littlejohn walked back to the station for the last train to Salton deep in thought.

It was as black as ink outside the orbit of the street lamps. The road led over the bridge across the railway. Shunting operations were going on in the nearby goods-yard. Below glinted the lines and Littlejohn could see the twin flights of platelayers' steps beginning on each side of the viaduct. He looked at his watch under a gas-lamp.

Fifteen minutes to go.

Quickly he ran down the iron staircase, reached the permanent way below, turned about and ascended rapidly to the bridge again. He was in first-class condition but the effort decidedly got him in the wind.

Then the whole thing came to him in a flash!

He hung over the bridge peering into the gloom. A shunter, carrying a lamp, passed below, walking on the sleepers. You could just make out a figure. No details. Nothing but a black blot and a swinging light.

Littlejohn turned on his heel and hurried to the station.

As the Inspector reached the train, shuffling steps descended the staircase. Two men appeared supporting a third and dumped him in the guard's van.

Harold Claypott. Drunk again!

To-night, Harold was truculent.

“I'm not goin' home … Shtayin' at the club. Don' wanna go home. …”

You could hear him bellowing in the van. His companions left him to it.

Then Claypott emerged, shouting for his vanished pals, tripped over the step and measured his length on the platform, where he lay still.

The stationmaster and guard hurried to the spot. Claypott wasn't hurt. Just all-in from drink. But he wouldn't budge. He refused to get up until they brought his friends to help him back to the club.

Littlejohn watched the scene with growing disgust, thinking of Harold's promises to his sisters and the disgrace he had brought upon them. Then the Inspector's ire rose beyond control.

Seizing a nearby fire-bucket, Littlejohn dashed a good half of the contents over the head and face of the recumbent toper.

They had no more trouble with Harold Claypott that night! He even arrived home in a maudlin condition, got his sisters out of bed, begged their forgiveness, and called loudly for his father's bible on which to swear a solemn oath …

Eight o'clock the following morning. Cromwell again strode up the battered asphalt path to Humphrey Godwin's door in Railway Terrace. In his pocket he carried a bottle of Greengoose's MILKO. A gift to placate the savage parent. For Cromwell was about to put him through the hoop once more.

Littlejohn had not arrested Hiss.

“It can wait,” he told Forrester. “I think I was wrong. To-day will prove it one way or the other. Hiss will do no harm meanwhile. He's quite
hors de combat
. Like a steam engine with the fires drawn.”

Forrester began to doubt the efficiency of Scotland Yard methods after all. All this messing about with Hiss as good as proved to be the murderer. Ought to be safely in the prison infirmary. However, in the silent clash of personalities Littlejohn won, as he usually did. He was given a day's grace.

Godwin met Cromwell on the doorstep. He'd had a bad night and as soon as his wife arrived home from night shift the baby had closed down and fallen asleep. It wasn't damn well good enough. Godwin was blacker under the eyes than ever and his temper was in ribbons.

Two lovely black eyes,

Oh, what a surprise …

Cromwell whistled it under his breath and sniggered to himself. His sense of humour is not highly developed and when he later passed on his little joke to Littlejohn, his chief told him off for being crude and callous …

But Humphrey Godwin wasn't uncivil to Cromwell. Oh, no. A chap who could put a kid to sleep like Cromwell had done the other day commanded Humphrey's unbounded respect.

When Cromwell gave him the MILKO and directions for use, together with testimonials on behalf of two little Cromwells and a lecture on why Mr. Greengoose's gift to suffering humanity would do the trick, Humphrey could not do enough for the detective. Of course, his frayed nerves erupted now and then, but what could you expect after only three hours of broken sleep, and with a day's rationing and coupon-cutting and cantankerous queues in front of you? …

“I'll go mad!!!” shouted Godwin.

“Come, come, come, you'll soon have your troubles behind you.”

“Please God I do,” moaned Humphrey rolling his tired head from side to side and looking ready to beat it against the wall.

“Now will you do something for me?”

“Anything, Mr. Cromwell. Anything. You've been a
pal and God knows I need one these days. What do you want?”

“About the man you saw when Bellis was murdered …”

“Oh, hell's bells … Oh, jumping Jerusalem … Oh …”

“Come, come. I only want your help …”

“Get it over, Mr. Cromwell. Get it over … I'll go daft!”

“You're sure you saw a
man
…?”

“Yes … I said so … I said so … Don't ask me again for the love of Mike. I can't stand it. I'm going potty with it all.”

Just like a Gestapo third-degree after the victim had been kept from sleep for several nights.

“Just a quiet question, Mr. Godwin, and then I've done. What
did
you see?”

Godwin was trying to brew tea for breakfast, but put coffee in the pot instead, made it, and didn't know the difference.

“Did you see a
man
. Or did you
say
it was a man, because you expected it was a man and not a woman?”

“Say that again. Want some tea?”

Cromwell took the tea and found it was coffee. Then he repeated his question.

“I saw a figure. Thought it was the guard. Could see the official cap like they wear …”

“See any other part of the uniform? You said you saw trousers, you know.”

“I thought they were trousers. What else could they be? Holy angels! What else could they be?”

He yelled it
fortissimo
and from upstairs came the sound of knocking on the floor in protest.

“Could they have been the fat legs of a fat woman or even a sturdy boy climbing into the compartment?”

“I never thought of that! No, I never … Good Lord! It's half-past eight and I've to be at the shop for nine. I'm not shaved!”

“Righto. I'll be off. So, it needn't have been a man?”

“Come to that, no. Never saw it in that light … Where the hell's my razor?”

Godwin began to rummage in the sideboard drawers of all places.

“Don't forget, Mr. Godwin. Use the MILKO as I said and you'll soon be all right …”

“Yes … I'll do as you say … MILKO … My razor … where is it?”

More knocking from the room above.

Cromwell wasn't there to hear it. He was telephoning to Littlejohn who was waiting for the news at Mereton police station.

Bessie Emmott hadn't been up long when the Inspector called. Alice was about, sweeping out the shop. People didn't want beer so early in the day, but it didn't seem decent to stay closed till lunch time with everyone else on the move.

Miss Emmott received Littlejohn in a soiled cotton wrapper. She hadn't much on underneath and Alice looked apologetically at the Inspector about it. Bessie was clean and her hair tidy but she looked on edge as though she'd had a bad night. She was smoking a cigarette. The table was littered with dirty breakfast dishes.

“When
are
we going to be rid of you?” she asked as Littlejohn appeared in the doorway.

“This is the last time, I think, Miss Emmott.”

Alice took up the broom again and returned to the shop where they soon heard her hard at it.

“Now, Miss Emmott. I've a message for you from a friend of yours, Mr. Lambert Hiss.”

“Friend o' mine? Hardly that. Just an old customer from the club. Decent little chap.”

So the famous women's intuition hadn't functioned in this case, or Bessie was pretending it hadn't.

“Mr. Hiss thinks the world of you, Miss Emmott.”

“He's what? Who's been telling you that tale?”

“Mr. Hiss himself.”

“Well, I like that!! Talk about wearin' his heart on his sleeve. He even tells the police. That's a good one!”

She broke into nervous, almost hysterical laughter.

“Stop it! This is serious. Mr. Hiss is dangerously ill, and in my opinion you're the cause of a lot of it …”

“Me? You've got a nerve, I must say. What have I got to do with it?”

She was properly nasty now, a bundle of nerves, and common with it.

“Yes. Lambert Hiss has been a very good friend to you for a long time and you haven't known it …”

“You're crazy. What has he to do with me? I hardly ever see him and we're not even on proper speaking terms. …”

Her nose went in the air like that of a silly flapper being coy.

“Speaking terms or not, he's been very thoughtful about your welfare. He's been very upset about the tragedy in your life caused by the death of Mr. Bellis …”

“Very good of 'im, I'm sure. What's it got to do with that old geezer? And with you, for that matter. Have you done with me, because I want to get dressed …”

“Mr. Hiss sent you a message. Everything's all right and he'd like you to call and see him.”

“Double dutch to me …
and
I like his nerve. Call to see him, indeed. Who does he think he is?”

“That's as may be. He collapsed last night after the concert, is seriously ill in bed and is anxious to see you…”

“I'm sorry he's ill, but I don't see what it's got to do with me. I can't make him better.”

“It's a lot to do with you. If I might venture a guess, his message means you needn't worry any more about who killed Bellis, and Hiss would like you to call so that he can tell you why …”

Bessie Emmott's jaw fell, her rather prominent eyes goggled and her hands trembled on the tablecloth. She pretended to occupy herself by pouring out a cup of cold tea. The teapot chattered against the cup.

“He's got a cheek. Tell me why, indeed. What's it got…?”

“It's got a good deal to do with you, Miss Emmott. You see, Mr. Hiss saw you kill Bellis!”

Miss Emmott paused with the cup half way to her mouth. She hadn't put on lipstick and her lips turned white. All the blood drained from her face and then returned again with a rush. She looked ready to have a fit. Hot and dishevelled, she rose unsteadily, her wrapper gaping and showing the top of her corsets.

“Get out! I've stood enough from you. Get out before I throw this at you …”

She raised the heavy earthenware teapot over her head. A jet of tea poured down her arm and into the gap in her wrapper, but she didn't seem aware of it.

“Throw the whole breakfast service if you like, Miss Emmott. That won't stop my telling you the truth. Hiss wants to see you so that he can tell you to keep quiet about the death of Bellis and not to worry, because if there's any danger of your being suspected, he'll say he did it himself.”

“You … you. It's a trap to catch me. Get out!”

It was dreadful. Bessie looked quite mad. She tore at her throat and made gurgling noises as though trying to strangle herself and rocked to and fro on her heels.

Then she went limp, sank in a chair and began to cry.

“I didn't … I didn't …”

Alice stood in the doorway aghast.

“What's the matter?”

“Just go to the garage down the street, Alice, and tell them to send a taxi at once. Your aunt's going back with me to make a statement to the Salton police.”