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    Death in Room Five
    Death in Room Five
    Death in Room Five
    Ebook322 pages5 hours

    Death in Room Five

    By George Bellairs

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    About this ebook

    Inspector Littlejohn confronts a challenging case across the Channel in this classic mystery from the “venerable” British author (Kirkus Reviews).
     
    When Alderman Dawson is stabbed to death while visiting the Riviera with a group of English tourists, Inspector Littlejohn puts his holiday on hold to assist the French police. But the suspects are plentiful. The culprit could be one of Dawson’s fellow travelers—or perhaps someone who encountered him years ago during World War II. While Littlejohn fends off complaints from the impatient members of the tour group and delves into potential motives, he can only hope that his investigation doesn’t go south along with his much-needed vacation. . . .
     
    “One of the subtlest and wittiest practitioners of the simon-pure British detective story . . . his adroit ironic Inspector Littlejohn is one of the more popular members of the fictional C.I.D.” —The New York Times
     
    “Mr. Bellairs always gives good value.” —The Sunday Times
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateOct 17, 2023
    ISBN9781504089845
    Death in Room Five
    Author

    George Bellairs

    George Bellairs was the pseudonym of Harold Blundell (1902–1985), an English crime author best known for the creation of Detective-Inspector Thomas Littlejohn. Born in Heywood, near Lancashire, Blundell introduced his famous detective in his first novel, Littlejohn on Leave (1941). A low-key Scotland Yard investigator whose adventures were told in the Golden Age style of Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, Littlejohn went on to appear in more than fifty novels, including The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge (1946), Outrage on Gallows Hill (1949), and The Case of the Headless Jesuit (1950). In the 1950s Bellairs relocated to the Isle of Man, a remote island in the Irish Sea, and began writing full time. He continued writing Thomas Littlejohn novels for the rest of his life, taking occasional breaks to write standalone novels, concluding the series with An Old Man Dies (1980).

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      Death in Room Five - George Bellairs

      Death in Room Five

      Also By George Bellairs

      Littlejohn on Leave

      The Four Unfaithful Servants

      Death of a Busybody

      The Dead Shall be Raised

      Death Stops the Frolic

      The Murder of a Quack

      He’d Rather be Dead

      Calamity at Harwood

      Death in the Night Watches

      The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge

      The Case of the Scared Rabbits

      Death on the Last Train

      The Case of the Seven Whistlers

      The Case of the Famished Parson

      Outrage on Gallows Hill

      The Case of the Demented Spiv

      Death Brings in the New Year

      Dead March for Penelope Blow

      Death in Dark Glasses

      Crime in Lepers’ Hollow

      A Knife for Harry Dodd

      Half-Mast for the Deemster

      The Cursing Stones Murder

      Death in Room Five

      Death Treads Softly

      Death Drops the Pilot

      Death in High Provence

      Death Sends for the Doctor

      Corpse at the Carnival

      Murder Makes Mistakes

      Bones in the Wilderness

      Toll the Bell for Murder

      Corpses in Enderby

      Death in the Fearful Night

      Death in Despair

      Death of a Tin God

      The Body in the Dumb River

      Death Before Breakfast

      The Tormentors

      Death in the Wasteland

      Surfeit of Suspects

      Death of a Shadow

      Death Spins the Wheel

      Intruder in the Dark

      Strangers Among the Dead

      Death in Desolation

      Single Ticket to Death

      Fatal Alibi

      Murder Gone Mad

      Tycoon’s Deathbed

      The Night They Killed Joss Varran

      Pomeroy, Deceased

      Murder Adrift

      Devious Murder

      Fear Round About

      Close All Roads to Sospel

      The Downhill Ride of Leeman Popple

      An Old Man Dies

      Death in Room Five

      An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery

      George Bellairs

      1

      The Man in Room Five

      ‘S till raining in London and they’ve had to cancel the test match …’

      Littlejohn folded the day-old English newspaper and took a swipe with it at a wasp which had been buzzing round the marmalade pot all through breakfast. Dundee Marmalade! The landlord of La Reserve was trying to make things homely for his guests.

      The Chief Inspector and his wife were sitting in the hotel garden. The neat white casino of Juan-les-Pins just across the way and then the sunny blue Mediterranean. Yachts and a few fishing boats on the calm water; early bathers taking a dip; a father teaching a little girl to swim; a young man and a girl pedalling furiously in a miniature paddle-boat. The Lérins in the foreground, and beyond, the long magnificent sweep of coast from the Esterel at St Raphaël to Cap d’Antibes, with the white villas and baked red roofs of Cannes and Golfe-Juan shining in the sun. It was only nine o’clock, but already the place was shimmering in the heat.

      The train from Paris rattled through the station on its way to Nice and Monte Carlo. A camel passed, led by man. You could have your photo taken sitting on its back for a hundred francs.

      In the neighbouring garden a man and woman were squabbling in English.

      ‘Surely you can spare enough for a frock like that. It would cost twice as much at home.’

      ‘I keep telling you, it’ll take us all our time to make the allowance spin out.’

      ‘Two Englishmen to see you, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.’

      The landlord of La Reserve approached the table with diffidence, his large brown eyes wide with apology. A little, fat, amiable man, doing his best to give the Littlejohns a good time because his brother-in-law occupied the next flat to the Chief Inspector at Hampstead.

      Monsieur Depaty and his wife played bridge with the Littlejohns once a week. They had between them taught the Chief Inspector to speak French very well. Depaty, who worked at the Embassy, was always singing the praises of La Reserve.

      ‘You ought to go there for a good rest. I’ll see you get special terms, which is an item nowadays, and it’s quiet and the food’s good. Nobody will bother you …’

      And so it seemed until someone tipped-off one of the prominent newspapers of the Coast.

      Chief Inspector Littlejohn, the famous Scotland Yard detective, and his wife have just arrived on holiday at La Reserve, Juan-les-Pins.

      It appeared sandwiched between a paragraph about a man who had bought a villa at Bormes-les-Mimosas and moved in with a large retinue, and another about an acrobat who had murdered his mistress and then cut his own throat.

      ‘That’s torn it,’ said Littlejohn when he read it. ‘There’ll be an outbreak of crime right away.’

      ‘What do they look like?’

      The patron shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘The usual.’

      The Chief Inspector didn’t quite know what he meant. He rose, screwed up his napkin, which his wife immediately straightened and slipped in the wooden ring engraved with a number One. The best bedroom!

      Next door the argument was still going on.

      ‘But I tell you, we’ve hardly enough to pay the hotel bill.’

      The two men were standing patiently in the hall. The usual. Littlejohn understood. The kind one saw on conducted tours. Both had Englishman written all over them. A bit shy and a bit suspicious, bothered by the currency and the language, working out the sterling equivalent of the labels on goods in the shops for the benefit of their wives, and now and then touching their passports in their inside pockets to make sure they were safe.

      Littlejohn was the same himself and his heart warmed to them.

      These two, however, looked worried and deflated. A tallish young man with a handlebar moustache, dressed in a blazer and flannels, and a small, middle-aged man perspiring in a Harris tweed sports coat and white shorts. He wore white shoes, too, and a white canvas cap. He looked as if he’d started for the South heavily clad and had shed some clothes when he got there. They were obviously relieved when the Inspector’s massive form filled the doorway and hurried to meet him.

      ‘You tell him, Leslie.’

      The younger man spoke. A warm, friendly, cultured voice. He turned out later to be the conductor of a private coach-tour from England. A sports master at a Grammar School, adding to his income during the recess.

      ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re in a spot of trouble. I’m here with a party from the north of England and last night one of them was stabbed in Cannes. He’s in hospital there and he’s in a poor way. He’s asking for you.’

      Littlejohn slipped on the light jacket he’d been carrying over his arm. The little man in the white cap thought he ought to speak.

      ‘There’s a party of us come by coach from Bolchester. We’re doing a round trip back through Switzerland. This ’as put paid to it, by the looks of it.’

      ‘But this is surely a job for the French police. I’m here on holiday as an ordinary British citizen. I’ll do all I can, but I’ve no standing.’

      ‘Oh, but Alderman Dawson has. He’s a JP.’

      As though Alderman Dawson’s judicial authority stretched all over the earth!

      ‘Alderman Dawson?’

      ‘Yes, he’s the man as ’as been stabbed. He’s an ex-Mayor of Bolchester. He speaks French. Got a medal from the French in the last war. Work with the Resistance. Parachuted into France not far from here. That’s why he’s come. He wanted to see the place again …’

      The young man thought it well to intervene.

      ‘You see, sir …’

      But white cap hadn’t finished.

      ‘Alderman Dawson won’t have no truck with the French police.’ He said it proudly and took off his white cap as he did so, as though someone were hauling up the flag. Then he nodded his head to show he’d finished.

      ‘You see, sir,’ said the man in the blazer, ‘we saw the other day in the paper that you were staying here. The Alderman remarked when I showed the notice to him that he’d met you once somewhere. Then, when he was stabbed, the first thing he said when the local police arrived at the hospital was Get Chief Inspector Littlejohn. I want to speak to him. We thought that seeing …’

      ‘That’s all right. I’ll come with you.’

      ‘We’ve got a taxi waitin’.’

      The little man was on the run for the door right away.

      The taxi driver was a little dishevelled man and hurled them through Golfe-Juan and straight into the stewpond of traffic on the Nice road without a pause. They had hardly recovered their breath before they were through Cannes and on the Grasse road. They passed an ‘H’ sign, then another, Hôpital. Silence. The taxi driver hooted furiously to show it didn’t apply to him and pulled-up dead.

      A pair of beautiful wrought-iron gates, open beneath a stone arch. Clinique des Petites Sœurs de la Miséricorde.

      ‘I think it’s a Catholic place,’ said the little man apologetically. ‘But they say it’s one of the best nursing-homes on the Riviera. I don’t know what Alderman Dawson will say when he comes round properly and sees his nurses are nuns. He’s a Baptist himself.’

      They made their way along the loose gravel drive between palm trees and hedges of mimosa and hydrangeas. The young man tugged the chain at the side of a massive oak door and a bell clanged above their heads.

      If complete silence was a part of the treatment, the patients would certainly get it here. A handsome building, with a broad, white stuccoed front, a long row of windows with neat green shutters, a wing on each side. Smooth lawns with beds of red geraniums and four revolving sprays at the ends of hose-pipes casting feathers of water on the grass. The chapel clock struck ten. The sky was clear, cloudless blue and it was hot for the time of day. The sight of the water-jets on the lawns made you more parched and stifled and you longed to lift one and let the water cool your head.

      A panel in the big door opened, revealing a wrought-iron grille, behind which appeared a coiffed face.

      ‘Bonjour, ma sœur.’

      The young man evidently knew his way about. The door opened silently to admit them.

      A wave of cool air met them as they crossed the threshold and, faintly mingled with it, the smell of incense from a distant chapel. As they moved farther inside it became lost in the more powerful odours of iodoform and ether.

      The doorkeeper led the way, her hands folded in her large sleeves.

      The place must have been a private château before the nuns took it over, for it was too lavish for their simple utilitarian purposes. The floor was of mosaic and a large, broad staircase of white marble swept upward to a balustrade beyond which the corridors stretched into other parts of the building. At the foot of the staircase, a small cabin of wood and glass, occupied by another sister busily writing in a large book. The doorkeeper glided ahead of Littlejohn’s party without sound save the flutter of her clothes, and handed them over to the second nun.

      A woman in the late forties, by appearances, although in the frame of the white coif, with her smooth pale cheeks, she had an ageless look. It must have been the eyes which dated her, the wrinkled eyelids, the expression of experience. The two hooded figures spoke in whispers, their cornettes touching. The Alderman’s visitors were passed from one to the other and the second acknowledged them with a slight inclination of the head.

      ‘Your passports, messieurs. It is not that I need your credentials, but that I can better spell your names if I see them written down. I have to put them in my book.’

      She spoke in perfect musical English.

      All the time nursing sisters were passing to and fro and it gave you a shock to find them so near, for their movements were noiseless. A tall man in a grey suit, probably a doctor, rapidly descended the staircase, raised two fingers at the presiding nun and was let out by the sister at the door.

      Leslie Humphries, Schoolmaster, Bolchester.

      Frederick Jackson Marriott, Wine Merchant, Bolchester.

      Thomas Littlejohn, Chief Detective Inspector, London.

      The receptionist raised her head and gave Littlejohn a shrewd look through her round gold-rimmed spectacles, smiled very faintly by simply dilating her nostrils, bracketed the three names together, and beside them wrote a large 5.

      ‘You wish to see Monsieur Cinque?’

      The Alderman, however great he might be in Bolchester, had lost his identity here. He was plain Mister Five, the number of his private ward.

      The sister rang a handbell and from the balcony above, her counterpart of the first floor descended rapidly down the staircase, her light silent feet scarcely seeming to touch the steps.

      A younger nun this time, with a rosy face without a wrinkle. A pretty girl with a clean complexion, polished like a ripe apple.

      ‘Monsieur Cinque.’

      The younger sister said nothing, but Littlejohn detected in the drooping of the mouth that something was wrong. With a gentle wave of the hand the nun indicated that they must follow her.

      The Chief Inspector began to capture the old lost feeling of more than forty years ago when he had been a choir boy in the parish church at home. The large, silent building, the crucifix on the wall of the staircase where the steps turned, the stray whiffs of incense floating above the hospital smells and then fading away, the hollow echoing sounds of his footsteps on the bare tiled floors. He caught himself walking on his tiptoes.

      The little man, Marriott, must have felt the same. He looked over-awed, his eyes wide, glancing all over the place, his slight disapproval at the religious atmosphere. He was presumably a Protestant and a bit out of his element. He made no bones about walking on his tiptoes and lifted his feet like a trotting-horse the better to move quietly. Humphries, the schoolmaster, was a step ahead. He must have known the ropes, for he made no attempt to speak to the nun leading them, not even to ask how the patient was.

      They reached a corridor containing four numbered doors and the sister halted at the first, bearing a 5 in white paint. She tapped and the door opened silently, revealing a woman who was obviously not of the rank and file. She was dressed in the usual habit, but it was either of a better cut or she wore it with better grace. She was tall, middle-aged, slim … an obvious aristocrat and one in authority. She had an aquiline face and beautiful hands. The sister leading the party was deferential. The older woman spoke quietly.

      ‘Oui, ma mère.’

      Littlejohn felt a bit at a loss. At home, he would have taken over easily on account of his authority. Here, he was a nobody, a visitor without standing. Something was obviously wrong. The mother superior herself had opened the door to them. Either the Alderman had been kicking up a fuss and demanding to see the head of the hospital, or else …

      The young nun had effaced herself and the older one was addressing them in good English.

      ‘You wished to see Monsieur Cinque. I am sorry to tell you that he died half an hour ago.’

      It must have been the atmosphere of the place and the serenity of the striking woman speaking that prevented them all from expressing surprise or asking questions. Instead, the three men stood there like pupils before a headmistress.

      ‘You may come inside. The police will wish to see you.’

      She opened the door wider and they entered the room, still without a word. It was large and airy with a broad window on the sill of which stood a box with geraniums growing in it. One side of the window was open and, at first, the silence was so intense that they could hear the swish of the water from the hoses in the garden and the hum of the distant traffic, with the militant horns of the motorists blaring now and then at one another.

      There was a simple iron bedstead with a crucifix on the wall at the head of it, a wardrobe, a chest, and a bedside table from which the doctor had not yet removed his stethoscope and instruments. On the bed lay a form covered with a sheet.

      The ward seemed full of people. A surgeon in a white smock; a silent gendarme in summer uniform; two men in civilian clothes; a clerk, obviously dancing attendance on them; another nursing sister and the mother superior; and the visitors she had just brought in.

      The taller man of the two in civilian dress looked at the newcomers. Tall and slim, middle-aged, with a skin like parchment and a high bald forehead. He was dressed in a black coat and striped trousers and his long neck emerged from his white collar like that of a bird. His features were aquiline and he wore black-framed spectacles. But you first noticed the shrewd, black, humorous eyes, which seemed to miss nothing. He was fastidious and gentlemanly to his fingertips.

      ‘Permit me, ma mère.’

      The mother superior nodded.

      ‘If you will excuse me, I will leave you together.’

      The tall man moved like a cat in the direction of the door and held it open for her.

      ‘I will see you later, with your permission, ma mère.’

      After she had left them, the tall man became active. He looked keenly at the three Englishmen and singled out Littlejohn.

      ‘You speak French?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You were a friend of the deceased?’

      ‘No. The other two are his friends; they come from the same town. After he met with his accident, they called to ask for my help.’

      ‘You are a doctor?’

      ‘No. I am a police officer. I am here on holiday and they had heard I was at Juan-les-Pins and called to say that the dead man wished to see me.’

      The eyes behind the black shell frames suddenly lit up and all the officious sternness in the man’s manner vanished. ‘You are Chief Inspector Littlejohn?’

      ‘The same, sir.’

      The man looked ready to fling himself upon Littlejohn and embrace him. Instead, he calmed himself, seized both the Inspector’s hands in his own, and shook them warmly.

      ‘Charmed to meet you, Chief Inspector. Honoured to welcome you to Cannes. I am Marcellin Joliclerc, juge d’instruction … examining magistrate. Things are a little different here, you know. In your cases in England, you are in charge as detective. Here, the detective works under the examining magistrate. Allow me to introduce my colleague, Commissaire Dorange, of the Brigade Mobile, Nice … the Nice Flying Squad.’

      The Inspector from Nice didn’t look like a detective at all. He was on the small side, thin and wiry, with a keen hatchet face and dark eyes which reminded you of black shoe buttons. His skin was baked mahogany colour and deeply furrowed, although he must have been on the right side of fifty. He wore a pearl-grey suit of material which looked like nylon, a red tie, and brown snakeskin shoes with holes punched in the uppers which made them almost sandals. There was a red carnation in his buttonhole, as though he’d picked it up from one of the stalls of the Nice flower market and stuck it in out of light-heartedness. He shook Littlejohn’s hand warmly. His fingers were sinewy and like small vices.

      ‘Delighted to meet you.’

      They might have been getting ready for a wedding or a first communion instead of presiding over the dead body of Alderman Dawson of Bolchester.

      The other two Englishmen stood silently near the door. Marriott coughed behind his hand.

      ‘What’s it all about, Inspector?’

      It pulled Littlejohn up with a jerk. The atmosphere of the hospital, combining as it did religion, healing and death, coming on top of the holiday feeling and hot sun of the Riviera, had got to his head.

      ‘I’m sorry, Mr Marriott.’

      He introduced his two companions and explained how he came to be there.

      ‘The Alderman wouldn’t have anything to do with the French police. Have you told him that?’

      Marriott was holding up Dawson’s end even in death. He said it in a cocky, defiant voice, as though by shouting and gesture he could translate the Alderman’s sentiments into good French.

      The examining magistrate bowed Marriott and Humphries into two of the fragile-looking chairs of the room. Then he took Littlejohn and introduced him to the surgeon who was still scribbling notes at the bedside. A busy little man with a fair complexion and pale blue eyes. A ragged moustache crossed his upper lip and he wore old-fashioned pince-nez clipped on his nose and held for safety by a chain which hooked round his ear.

      ‘Doctor Murols, the resident surgeon here. He has been attending to Mr Dawson since he was admitted.’

      Murols was a little fusspot. He seemed reluctant to part from his fountain pen and official forms. As he wrote he made little grunting noises and kept sitting back to survey his handwriting as though anxious that it should be legible. He told Littlejohn as they shook hands that he had once been to England as a student and had spent a year at St Barnabew’s Hospital, which left the Chief Inspector wondering whether it was St Bartholomew’s or St Barnabas’. In any case, it didn’t seem to have done Dr Murols much good. Littlejohn found himself thinking he’d rather trust himself to his wife than to Murols in an emergency.

      ‘He died of internal bleeding. The knife had passed between the ribs and punctured the lung. We could not stop the haemorrhage. I called in Dr Matthieu, but he was of no avail.’

      Matthieu. Littlejohn had heard of him. One of the best surgeons on the Coast. Dawson had, therefore, had the best attention. And he had died, nevertheless, refusing to have any truck with the French police.

      ‘Did he make any statement, doctor?’

      Murols looked at Joliclerc to see if it was all right for him to answer Littlejohn’s question.

      ‘No,’ he said after the magistrate had nodded assent. ‘Shortly after he was brought here, he lost consciousness. His friend, the one over there, was with him. He spoke to him.’

      Littlejohn turned to Marriott and translated what Murols had said.

      ‘That’s right. The Alderman told me then to get you.’

      ‘Did he say anything else?’

      ‘He was ramblin’ a bit. He said somethin’ in what might have been French … Wait a minute. I put it down to the best of my ability …’

      Marriott fumbled in his pocket and brought out a soiled envelope.

      ‘Val O’Ree,’ he read. ‘Val O’Ree, it sounded like. That’s all I got. It might have been a man’s name. It sounds like one. That’s all. He was gaspin’ when he asked for you. He wanted a word with you. Then he started to ramble and the doctor sent us out. We came for you right away. Seems it wasn’t much use. I don’t know what they’ll say in Bolchester when the news reaches them. To die abroad and from foul play. I don’t know …’

      Marriott shook his head gravely as though anticipating serious diplomatic repercussions.

      ‘How did it happen? I forgot to ask in the rush.’

      The doctor and the police officials were busy with their forms and Littlejohn took the opportunity.

      ‘We’re stayin’ at an ’otel just off the prom here, called Bagatelle. Reminds you of the old game we used to play, doesn’t it? But here it means somethin’ else, I gather. However, after dinner last night, the Alderman

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