Death on the Last Train (4 page)

The policeman in charge drew back the sheet from the face of the figure lying on one of the slabs. Bessie looked down at what remained of Timothy Bellis and began to cry noisily again, leaning on the white wall for support. Then, suddenly her figure stiffened.

“Where did he shoot himself?” she asked returning to the body.

The head of the corpse was swathed in bandages, with only the face below the eyebrows showing. Although the weapon was a small one, it had almost blown away one temple.

Dr. Cooper pointed to a spot on the bandage. The girl was obviously bracing herself for the ordeal.

“The bullet entered there … through the right temple and out by the left …”

“Then it wasn't suicide … It wasn't …It wasn't.”

Bessie was getting hysterical. Cooper took her by the shoulders and shook her. They led her back to the Chief Constable's room.

“Now, Miss Emmott. Why wasn't it suicide?”

“Because last night Mr. Bellis sprained his wrist badly. The lights at my house fused and he climbed up to the box to put in a new wire. He slipped off the ladder and fell on his wrist with his full weight …”

“Had he been drinking?” asked the doctor callously.

“Never you mind what he'd been doin'. He fell off and hurt himself so that he couldn't even hold a glass or the cup o' tea I gave him before we left for the station. I wanted to wrap it up for 'im, but he was in a hurry for the train and said he'd a wrist strap he'd put on it when
he got home. So I painted it with Arnica and made him promise to see a doctor in the mornin'.”

“You're sure of this?” asked the Chief Constable.

“What do you think I'm tellin' you for, if it isn't true? I tell you, he couldn't even open the door of the railway carriage when I saw 'im off at Mereton. I had to do it for him. And if you want proper proof, you ask the parson here … Beaglefield or somethin' …”

Back to Littlejohn's mind came the picture of it all on Mereton station. He remembered the incident and said so.

“You were the man eatin' a pie at the next carriage window!”

“Yes. That's right.”

The Chief Constable looked at the slip on his desk bearing the names remembered by the ticket collector of those who had left the last train at Salton.

Group of munition workers from Cramp's Aircraft Factory.

Members of the Good Samaritans.

Mr. Harold Claypott.

Rev. Beaglehole …

Yes. There he was.

“And that Beaglebody, or whatever he's called, was in the next carriage to Mr. Bellis, on the other side. I saw him lookin' at us out of the corner of his eye, just as Tim … Mr. Bellis … was tryin' to open the door. Not that I want anythin' to do with Beaglebody and his kind. Knew Mr. Bellis, he did, when Tim was rich and flourishin' and cut him when he came on bad times. As for me … well … Mr. Righteous Beaglefield daren't breathe the same air as a fallen woman …”

“Never mind that now, Miss Emmott. I'll get that point settled by the vicar. Meanwhile, Inspector Littlejohn confirms it. Just one other matter. Did Mr. Bellis carry a revolver about with him?”

“He might have done; and who'd have blamed 'im with the threats he'd suffered? Might have had it in his overcoat. I didn't search 'im.”

“Very well, Miss Emmott. I'm very grateful to you for calling …”

“Wouldn't have thought so the way I was received …”

“I'll let you know of any developments and shall probably want to see you later.”

“Bet your life you'll see more of me. It wasn't suicide and I'm not lettin' anybody pin the coward's badge on Tim Bellis, mister. Police or no police. So put that in your pipes and smoke it …”

With that Bessie Emmott, like an angry Juno, strode out of the police station and was taken home in a police-car to Mereton. She wept all the way home.

“Well?” said Cooper, when the three of them were alone again.

“Looks as if you're wrong, doctor. You can't be blamed, of course, for not finding out the state of his right wrist. In such circumstances, could Bellis have killed himself with his right hand?”

“Probably not. Depends on the extent of the damage to the wrist.”

“From what I saw of the incident Bessie Emmott mentioned, Bellis was suffering considerably from it,” said Littlejohn sleepily.

“Then he was murdered very cleverly by someone who made one big mistake in a very clever suicide plot. Looks as though stopping the train at Salton Cutting, which the stationmaster mentioned, was part of the game. Perhaps you'll check up the damage to the wrist, doctor?”

“Yes …”

“I must have heard that shot,” muttered Littlejohn.

“Eh?”

“Whilst the train was standing at the Cutting, I heard what I thought was a crack in the steam heating. It wasn't plain, because the engine was blowing off noisily, the heating apparatus was gurgling and the train staff were shouting at the tops of their voices. But it might have been the shot …”

“Well … We've a busy day in front of us tomorrow …”

The old wall clock made wheezing noises like two asthmatic coughs. Someone had removed the bell from the striking mechanism, but the clock still told the hours with what was left of it.

“Two o'clock! Come on, Inspector. You must be fagged out. I'll run you to
The Laughing Man
,” said Forrester. “Do you think it's murder?”

“Looks very much like it.”

Littlejohn was standing grumpily in his hat and wet coat waiting for the next move. He thrust out his half-empty pipe between his teeth and lit it. It tasted damp and stale. He put it back in his pocket. He felt sick and giddy, and suddenly realised that he'd had next to nothing to eat since breakfast.

At
The Laughing Man
an unusually civil night porter, primed by Forrester and awed by a visit from Scotland Yard, went foraging for food. Three bread rolls, half a chicken from the refrigerator and a bottle of beer were brought to the lounge for him and after he had finished them, Littlejohn went gladly to bed. He knew nothing of the room or the state of the bed that night. He didn't remember how he got undressed. All he recollected was that the rain was still falling in torrents and somewhere in the distance a ship's siren bleated dismally. At nine-thirty the following morning, the maid wakened the detective to tell him they didn't serve breakfasts after ten.

Littlejohn finished his breakfast about half past ten. The waiter who served him told him that the Chief Constable's last word on the previous night had been that they must allow the Inspector to sleep as long as he
wanted the next morning. Littlejohn thought better of
The Laughing Man
and Forrester for their consideration.

There was one other man eating. A commercial traveller, small and fat, with spiders' webs of red veins on his eyeballs and bags the size of half-crowns under his eyes.

“Had a thick night last night … Got up a bit late,” he said, trying to open the ball.

“Humph,” said Littlejohn, not feeling too bright himself. The breakfast had been poor and it was still raining outside.

The traveller dried up and sat waiting for his fried sausages, large and still like an expectant toad.

Littlejohn rose and looked through the window. The hotel was right on the waterfront. Things seemed brisk and men were busy unloading fish and coal. The sky was black with rain clouds and the wind tossed the smoke of the coasters about and flapped the ropes of the fishing craft. The labourers who wore no raincoats were drenched. Their bosses struggled to balance themselves against the gale as they stood watching operations in dripping macintoshes. One man who tried to hoist an umbrella had it blown inside out.

Long ago Salton was a prosperous little port, with trade in timber, coal and stone, and running a fishing fleet of fair size. But the hinterland, gripped by depression, ceased to serve or need it, and left it with forlorn quays and derelict warehouses, and turned the fine old houses of one-time prosperous traders into tenements and slums.

Then came the war, and things bucked-up again. Convoys, gathering in neighbouring ports, drove coasting trade back to Salton and the docks took on a new lease of life.

“Proper hole … back o' beyond” said the commercial traveller, who had recovered from his first snubbing and between the mouthfuls had retailed the story of Salton to Littlejohn.

Littlejohn went out, bought himself some tobacco and then turned in at the police station. Dr. Cooper was
there. He had examined the body again and found the wrist fractured.

“You look better this morning,” said Forrester to Littlejohn.

“Yes. Thanks for fixing me up so well. I've had a good night.”

“The doctor tells me that Bellis's wrist was fractured. He couldn't have manipulated the revolver. So it was murder …”

“Looks like it” said Cooper. “Funny business. Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll be off on my rounds. See you later.”

“You'll stay and help us then, Inspector?” asked Forrester when they were alone. “I've been on to Scotland Yard already and they're quite agreeable.”

“Of course, if you want me. … What about Ellinborne? I ought to get in touch with the police there. I picked up a forger they were after and must square things up with them.”

“I've had a word with them, too. The superintendent there's a friend of mine. Said he'd be glad to see you this afternoon, about three. I'll lend you a car. …”

“Good of you. Where do we begin, Mr. Forrester?”

“Well, my men were on the job early. They inspected the line where the train was halted last night. Nothing much there except the broken signal, which has now been put right. They've questioned the railway officials who were on duty at the time. I've also had the compartment where Bellis died tested for fingerprints without much luck. A crop of every shape and size, but nothing that could be identified. …”

“How about the travellers on the train?”

“I have a list here, but so far we've not made contact with any of them. A crowd of munition workers from Cramp's Works at Mereton. Probably a visit to the works and a word with them individually would be better than seeking them out one by one. Then there was yourself, Mr. Beaglehole, vicar of the parish church here, and Claypott, a local toper, who goes to Mereton to get drunk and
comes home regularly in the guard's van, and a party from a local friendly society lodge who'd been visiting neighbours. I don't think any of them'll be able to help us much.”

“I see. I'd perhaps better do the rounds myself then, sir, if you care to give me the list. Did the train staff have anything to say?”

“It's quite evident, I think, that the train was deliberately held up so that someone could climb aboard, kill Bellis, and then sneak away again. The guard and driver were concerned with the left side of the train nearest to the signal, and someone could have operated from the other one unnoticed.”

“Did anybody else hear the shot?”

“No. The driver admits that the engine was blowing off steam all the time they were standing there. Then, when they got going, there was a lot of commotion. The gradient's uphill there and they make a noisy start.”

“Have you got the gun?”

Forrester passed over a small, old-fashioned revolver.

“It was Bellis's own. The murderer must either have got hold of it from his home or Bellis must have drawn it and the murderer taken it from him and used it against him.”

“Did Bellis usually carry it?”

“Yes, since he received the letters I showed you last night. His man, Tarrant, told me that, but neither he nor the Emmott woman could say whether or not he was carrying it when he was killed. Tarrant says he hasn't seen it for several weeks.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Only those of Bellis.”

“Looks like a carefully planned crime …”

“Yes. I
do
need your help. Want a fresh mind on the whole business. This has been going on for months and has me completely baffled. Especially now that it's ended in Bellis's death after his yelling so loud for police protection. I feel bad about it.”

“I'll help all I can, sir. By the way, who's this fellow Tarrant? If Bellis was so poor, wonder he could afford a personal servant.”

“Oh, he's an ex-sailor. A Salton man. Bellis took him on as chauffeur-gardener in his better days, and somehow, the man's stuck to him. He's been his bodyguard lately.”

“I think I'll have a word with Tarrant first. Where do I find him?”

“I'll take you round there. …”

“Don't bother if you're busy. Tell me where the place is and I'll find my own way.”

Following Forrester's directions, Littlejohn halted before an old house on the quay. In better days this had evidently been the home of some wealthy merchant. A double-fronted place with a fine door and an ornamental brass knocker covered in verdigris. The whole badly needed a coat of paint and the windows were dirty. The houses on each side had been turned into offices for produce merchants, chandlers, shipowners and the like. There was a flyblown bill in the window of Bellis's house.

THIS DESIRABLE PROPERTY
FOR SALE.
Apply Smith & Nobbs,
Estate Agents,
Salton.

The knocker was too stiff to function, so Littlejohn pummelled the panel of the door with his fist. The noise reverberated round the passage inside.

“Nobody at home. He died last night. Murdered, they say …”

A blowsy woman with a fat, dirty face, standing out of the range of the rain in the doorway of the tenement house next-door-but-one, called in a shrill voice. She regarded Littlejohn suspiciously with dark malevolent eyes, as if he might have committed the crime himself.

“Where's Tarrant?”

“You'll probably find him in the
Admiral Rodney. . .”