Murder Adrift (7 page)

Hopkinson produced his notebook and laid it on the table to show he was ready for business. He confessed to Littlejohn that he hadn't had much success during his tour of the town in search of people wandering round the quay and waterfront at a late hour on the night of the crime. He had even consulted the vicar and the local doctor.

‘In case they'd been to a deathbed or a confinement at a late hour. The doctor had been called out and returned about midnight, but saw nobody except. . . .'

Hopkinson referred to his book to give the exact answer.

‘Except a couple of lovers in the town-hall doorway in frantic disarray as he put it. He didn't recognise either of them, he said. He seems to have a funny sense of humour. . . . '

Littlejohn could hardly keep his face straight.

‘Nothing else?'

‘No sir. I'm sorry. . . .'

‘Don't apologise. You did your best. Ken and his mother don't seem very fond of Hector. As though they've grown tired of besmirching the family honour and are relieved that it's all finished. I'm not suggesting that they murdered him in consequence, but their attitude is certainly not one of heavy mourning. I hope we can soon see Heck's widow. I wonder if she's the same?'

Another maroon shook the place. This time it was the real thing, and the yachts started to sail away. Everybody crowded to the waterside and someone created a diversion by edging too close and falling in. The mayor was busy on his official barge, showing his interest by following the competitors through a telescope which he seemed to have difficulty in focusing.

‘Another beer?'

Hopkinson said he would, thank you, and waved in the direction of the waiters, who pretended not to see him. They had been betting heavily on the results and that was much more important for the present. The manager arrived again. He carried two beers.

‘I thought it would be the same again, and I'd better attend to it. It's no use trusting the staff until the boats have rounded the head and reached the open sea. It's the same every year. The customers are too familiar with them. . . . '

Littlejohn interrupted his lamentations.

‘Do you buy wine from Todd and Co.?'

‘Yes. It's carafe stuff, you know. Bottled here. If you want château bottled or the better class wines we get those from a London firm. Todds' don't handle the classy ones. Mind you, the carafe wines are good and cheap for washing down a meal, but for connoisseurs . . . No. We've a good cellar here.'

‘I'm sure you have. Who takes the orders for Todds' wines?'

‘They have two travellers, representatives they call them, who go round to the hotels and licensed grocers advertising their lines and taking orders.'

‘Who are they?'

‘Two elderly men who've been with the family since they were boys. John James Dawson and John Willie Lever. Were you wanting to buy some to take back to London, because I could attend to it . . .?'

‘No, thanks. I was just interested in their selling systems.'

‘It's a bit old-fashioned compared with modern ways, but it works very well. They have considerable sales for about 50 miles round Portwich and these two experienced salesmen rake in the custom. They're a popular couple and bring in a lot of business for the firm.'

‘Where do they live?'

‘Somewhere in the locality. I could find their addresses if you like. But you'll see them in one of the bars here most evenings. Dawson is a seasoned drinker, but Lever drinks very little. He's troubled with his liver and wine doesn't agree with him.'

The yachts were now all at sea and the waiters were taking more interest in their jobs. The manager left to remind them that lunch was waiting and the usual routine commenced.

It was the drab hour between tea and dinner. Littlejohn stood at the window of the hotel which overlooked the waterfront watching the boat owners clearing the decks and tying everything down. Those who were lucky enough to have shelter in the very limited boathouse accommodation were eagerly seeking it and steering their craft out of harm's way. In the basin the ships were tugging at their cables. The great day had been something of a washout. No sooner had the mayor fired the starting gun than the wind got up, as though by his efforts Mr. Pollitt had disturbed the elements.

As the races proceeded, so did the wind. Finally, in the later afternoon, only the best of the yachts completed the course and a lot of weaklings and stragglers had to be helped in. Ultimately, a short but sharp freak storm of tropical rain crowned the lot. The prognostications of the official forecasters had been clear skies and favourable winds. Everyone was furious about it and they refused to be pacified even when the deputy mayor made it known that he had telephoned the B.B.C., told them off,
and demanded an inquiry and a full explanation.

The gala atmosphere and the subsequent fury at the weather and the weather-prophets thoroughly upset the daily routine of the town. Littlejohn was at loss how to proceed with the investigation of Heck Todd's murder, which had been quite forgotten in the prevailing turmoil. There were a number of people the detectives wished to interview, but they all seemed mixed up in the crowds.

Lunch at the
Trident
was a cold one and there weren't many partaking even of that. It was a day for sandwiches for those who lined the quay, beach and coastline intent on the races. Not that the bulk of them knew much about sailing and its mysteries, but it was an outing and the bookies were everywhere and a lot of bets had been laid.

Far from being bored by the hiatus in the inquiry, Hopkinson was eager and enthusiastic to be doing something. The encounter with Mrs. Todd earlier in the day had stimulated him and he seemed to have formed a theory that to interview all and sundry connected with the case would bring results if not a complete solution. He told Littlejohn so.

To Littlejohn it seemed that Hoppy was confusing the High Court procedure about which he had learned in his law examinations, with the field-work of the detective. All the same, there was no harm in encouraging his eagerness.

‘We've already interviewed Kenneth Todd and his mother. You'd better not go over the ground with them again for the present. There are, however, two other interesting fellows who might be able to help us. They're Todd & Co.'s representatives who travel on circuit among Todds' customers taking orders for wines. . . .'

Hopkinson's face fell. He wondered what a couple of commercial travellers had to do with the murder.

‘These two seem to be peddlers of gossip and Kenneth
Todd and his mother have actually used them as what might be called private eyes to report as much as they could about Heck Todd and his doings. They will probably be able to tell us quite a lot. We'd better lay them by the heels somewhere and question them. There's a yacht club dinner here tonight, as you'll have observed. . . .'

He indicated the large dining-room in which waitresses were already laying the covers for what might be, at a rough guess, over a hundred guests.

‘ . . . I wouldn't be surprised if our two travellers were among those present. Go and ask the manager if he has the place-lists for the tables, and if J. J. Dawson and J. W. Lever are included in them. By the way, you and I are invited as guests of the mayor.'

Hopkinson almost ran to the manager's office in his eagerness. He was quickly back again.

‘Both of them will be there, sir. Kenneth Todd was invited, but has declined in view of the recent death of his brother. The mayor of Portwich will be there, too, and the Chief Constable should have been, but has declined through pressure of business.'

‘Probably the Chief Constable's cried off because, in view of the condition of his two chief assistants, he can't bear the thought of exotic meals at present. Especially if he's seen the menu. There's one on display in the hall, I see. Scallops, chicken vol-au-vent, tournedos Rossini and
omelette surprise.
No wonder it's turned him up!'

Hopkinson nodded gravely. He hadn't much sense of humour nor was he anything of a gourmet.

‘The manager was in a bad temper when we met him this morning. If he's improved, you might see him and contrive, if possible, to have Dawson sitting beside you and Lever beside me at the dinner.'

‘Suppose the mayor's made all the arrangements?'

‘That's easy. Tell the manager to explain to His Worship that the moves have been made at my request as we don't wish to be conspicuous on the top table in the circumstances.'

Hopkinson hurried off again to cajole the manager.

Meanwhile, Littlejohn sat in the hall and watched the red carpet being laid and then a cavalcade of employees of the town's parks and gardens committee carrying and arranging under the eye of the parks superintendent large pots of palms and flowering exotic plants. By the time Hopkinson returned Littlejohn was sitting in a jungle of foliage and extravagant flowers.

‘That's all arranged, sir. There's some doubt about the mayor being present now. It seems he's very prone to seasickness and was watching the races from the mayoral barge when the storm struck the place. By the time they got him to land he was in a state of collapse. If he comes, I wonder how he'll face up to the scallops and the surprise omelettes. . . . By the way, it's as well we've arranged not to be on the top table. Dinner jackets optional everywhere, except on the top table, where they're compulsory. I haven't got mine with me.'

‘Neither have I. I could do with a drink and a bath after all that. We'll meet down here at 7.15, shall we?'

‘I don't know Dawson and Lever – do you, sir?'

‘No. But it's my guess that when they see the table plan and find we're at their elbows, they'll be round us like bees at a honeypot.'

The dinner should have been preceded by the mayor's receiving the guests as they arrived in the hall. Mr. Pollitt had fully recovered from his attack of
mal-de-mer
except that he still had an aftermath of liverish torpor and was
slow in performing his reception duties. The arriving guests exceeded Mr. Pollitt's ability to deal with them and part one of the affair ended in a scramble.

After the scrimmage for places had died down and the Bishop of Portwich – who had in his day been an Oxford oarsman and regarded himself now as a sort of patron saint of yachting – had completely silenced the shouting and randy laughter of those who were already half-drunk by uttering over them two Latin words of grace, the scallops were served.

‘Why didn't they make it oysters and be done with it?' said Dawson to Hopkinson, tucking-in with zest.

John James Dawson was a smallish, stocky man, who looked like an army sergeant-major in mufti. He had started with Todds as a boy of 15 and risen from the bottling shed to be their senior traveller. Now he was 55. Forty years in the wood, professionally speaking, except for five years in the army in the last war which ended in his reaching the rank he resembled. It didn't take him long to reach familiar terms with Hoppy, whose heart sank at the thought of putting him through a diplomatic police interrogation in the circumstances. He looked at Dawson's florid complexion, bloodshot eyes and large red nose, then at the bottle of hock half of which had already gone the way of the scallops, and wondered where it was all going to end. He need not have worried. ‘J.J.' never lost his lucidity however much he consumed. He was immunised by the fumes and consumption which went with his job.

Dawson, who sat at Hopkinson's right hand, introduced himself straight away.

‘Dawson's the name. Locally known as “J.J.”. I'm the rep. for Todds', the vintners. You one of the sailing lot?'

In his cordiality, he blew a blast of hock and scallops
across Hopkinson's face. The young detective had to confess why he was there and Dawson assumed a look of appropriate melancholy, said it was a sad and alarming business and, finding a waitress removing his used plate, chucked her under the chin, called her Sandra, and said that finding her at his elbow had made his day.

Fortunately for Hopkinson, his left-hand companion was a clergyman who had apparently found one of his flock on his other side and discussed matters of ecclesiastical finance with him through most of the proceedings, to the neglect of Hoppy, who was very thankful for it. The clergyman was so engrossed in his subject that he ate Hoppy's bread-roll as well as his own.

Now and then Littlejohn caught Hopkinson's eye and nodded genially. He was sitting next to a thin, nervy, hatchet-faced man who looked more like an undertaker than a wine salesman, and who was drinking from a bottle of Vichy water. Hoppy wondered if he had somehow got the guest-lists mixed up and landed Littlejohn with the local mortician instead.

‘Is that your boss sitting with Lever?' said Dawson in a testy voice, as though, as senior ‘rep.' he himself ought to be there with the boss detective.

Dawson, in keeping with his daily occupation, had plenty of patter about one thing and another and he and Hopkinson might have been lifelong friends by the time they reached the
omelette surprise.
Hoppy wondered if it would terminate in Dawson soliciting an order for wine. One thing was particularly noticeable : Dawson never mentioned the murder and showed no inclination to discuss it.

Thus they reached the end of the meal without Hoppy having a chance to gather even a few crumbs of local gossip. The speeches began : the mayor, the mayor of
Portwich, the bishop, and, for the guests, a man who had sailed round the world several times and was rabelaisian and well in his cups. The trophies were presented, too, by Mr. Pollitt, who had drunk so many toasts that he got them mixed up. So they sang ‘For he's a jolly good fellow' and the toastmaster sorted out him and his cups and plaques and all was well. Then they all sang the National Anthem and the party slowly broke up.

Hopkinson was unsteady himself when they rose to go and to add to his embarrassment Dawson proposed that they should adjourn for a farewell drink.