Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 9: Clutch of Constables, When in Rome, Tied Up in Tinsel

‘Thank you, sir,’ Alleyn said, and when Mr Lazenby had gone, whistled, almost inaudibly, the tune of ‘Yes, we have no bananas’, which for some reason seemed to express his mood.

He was disturbed, almost immediately, by the arrival of the Hewsons and Mr Pollock.

Miss Hewson came first. She checked in the open doorway and looked, as far as an inexpressive face allowed her to do so, absolutely furious. Alleyn rose.

‘Pardon me. I had gotten an impression that this stateroom had been allocated to our personal use,’ said Miss Hewson.

Alleyn said he was sure she would find that nothing had been disturbed.

Mr Hewson, looking over his sister’s shoulder like a gaunt familiar spirit said he guessed that wasn’t the point and Mr Pollock, obscured, could be heard to say something about search-warrants.

Alleyn repeated his story. Without committing himself in so many words he contrived to suggest that his mind was running along the lines of suicide as indicated by Mr Lazenby. He sensed an easing off in antagonism among his hearers. The time had come for what Troy was in the habit of referring to as his unbridled comehithery, which was unfair of Troy. He talked about the Hewsons’ find and said his wife had told him it might well prove to be an important Constable.

He said, untruthfully, that he had had no police experience in the realms of art-forgery. He believed, he said, and he had, in fact, been told by a top man, that it was most important for the canvas to be untouched until the experts looked at it. He wasn’t sure that his wife and Mr Bard hadn’t been naughty to oil the surface.

He would love to see the picture. He said if he could afford it he would be a collector. He had the mania. He gushed.

As soon as he broached the matter of the picture Alleyn was quite sure that the Hewsons did not want him to see it. They listened to him and eyed him and said next to nothing. Mr Pollock, still in the background, hung off and on and could be heard to mutter.

Finally, Alleyn fired point-blank. ‘Do show me your “Constable”,’ he said. ‘I’m longing to see it.’

Miss Hewson with every appearance of the deepest reluctance seemed to be about to move into the cabin when her brother suddenly ejaculated –

‘Now, isn’t this just too bad! Sis, what do you know!’

From the glance she shot at him, Alleyn would have thought that she hadn’t the remotest idea what he was driving at. She said nothing.

Mr Hewson turned to Alleyn with a very wide smile.

‘Just too bad,’ he repeated. ‘Just one of those darn’ things! It sure would’ve been a privilege to have your opinion, Superintendent, but you know what? We packaged up that problem picture and mailed it right back to our London address not more’n half an hour before we quit Crossdyke.’

‘Did you really? I am disappointed,’ said Alleyn.

III

‘Funny way to carry on,’ said Tillottson.

‘So funny that I’ve taken it upon myself to lock the cabin door, keep the key and make sure there is not a duplicate. And if the Hewsons don’t fancy that one they can lump it. What’s more I’m going to rouse up Mr Jno. Bagg, licensed dealer of Tollardwark. I think you’d better come, too, Bert,’ said Alleyn who had arrived at Mr Tillottson’s first name by way of Fox.

‘Him! Why?’

‘I’ll explain on the way. Warn them at the lock, will you, Bert, to hold anything from the Zodiac that’s handed in for posting. After all, they could pick that lock. And tell your chaps to watch like lynxes for anything to go overboard. It’s too big,’ he added, ‘for them to shove it down the loo and if they dropped it out of a porthole I think it’d float. But tell your chaps to watch. We’ll take your car, shall we?’

They left the mist-shrouded Zodiac and drove up the lane through the Constable landscape. When they reached the intersection a policeman on a motorcycle saluted.

‘My chap,’ Tillottson said.

‘Yes. I’m still uneasy, though. You’re sure this specimen can’t break for the open country and lie doggo?’

‘I’ve got three chaps on the intersections and two down at the lock. No one’ll get off that boat tonight: I’ll guarantee it.’

‘I suppose not. All right. Press on,’ Alleyn said.

The evening had begun to close in when they reached Tollardwark and Ferry Lane. They left their car in the Market Square and followed Troy’s route downhill to the premises of Jno. Bagg.

‘Pretty tumbledown dump,’ Tillottson said. ‘But he’s honest enough as dealers go. Not a local man. Southerner. Previous owner died and this chap Jo Bagg, bought the show as it stood. We’ve nothing against him in Records. He’s a rum character, though, is Jo Bagg.’

The premises consisted of a cottage, a lean-to and a yard, which was partly sheltered by a sort of ramshackle cloister pieced together from scrap iron and linoleum. The yard gate was locked. Through it Alleyn saw copious disjecta membra of Mr Bagg’s operations. A shop window in the cottage wall dingily faced the lane. It was into this window that Troy had found the Hewsons peering last Monday night.

Tillottson said. ‘He’ll be in bed as like as not. They go to bed early in these parts.’

‘Stir him up,’ Alleyn rejoined and jerked at a cord that dangled from a hole near the door. A bell jangled inside. No response. ‘Up you get,’ Alleyn muttered and jerked again. Tillottson banged on the door.

‘If you lads don’t want to be given in charge,’ bawled a voice within, ‘you better ’op it. Go on. Get out of it. I’ll murder you one of these nights, see if I don’t.’

‘It’s me, Jo,’ Tillottson shouted through the keyhole. ‘Tillottson. Police. Spare us a moment, will you?’

‘Who?’

‘Tillottson: Toll’ark Police.’

Silence. A light was turned on somewhere behind the dirty window. They heard shuffling steps and the elaborate unchaining and unbolting of the door which was finally dragged open with a screech to reveal a small, dirty man wearing pyjamas and an unspeakable overcoat.

‘What’s it all about?’ he complained. ‘I’m going to bed. What’s the idea?’

‘We won’t keep you, Jo. If we can just come in for half a sec.’

He muttered and stood aside. ‘In there, then,’ he said and dragged and banged the door shut. ‘In the shop.’

They walked into what passed for a shop: a low room crammed to its ceiling and so ill-lit that nothing came out into the open or declared itself in its character of table, hat-rack or mouldering chair. Rather, everything lurked in menacing anonymity and it really was going too far in the macabre for Jno. Bagg to suspend a doll from one of the rafters by a cord round its broken neck.

‘This,’ said Mr Tillottson, ‘is Superintendent Alleyn of the CID, Jo. He wonders if you can help him.’

‘’Ere,’ said Mr Bagg, ‘that’s a type of remark I never expected to have thrown at me on me own premises. Help the police. We all know what that one leads to.’

‘No, you don’t, Jo. Listen, Jo –’

Alleyn intervened. ‘Mr Bagg,’ he said, ‘you can take my word for it there is no question of anything being held against you in any way whatever. I’ll come to the point at once. We are anxious to trace the origin of a picture which was sold by you yesterday to an American lady and her brother. We have reason to believe –’

‘Don’t you start making out I’m a fence. Don’t you come at that one, mister. Me! A fence –!’

‘I don’t for one moment suggest you’re anything of the sort. Do pay attention like a good chap. I have reason to believe that this picture may have been dumped on your premises and I want to find out if that could be so.’

‘Dumped! You joking?’

‘Not at all. Now, listen. The picture, as you will remember, was in a bundle of old prints and scraps and the lady found it when she opened the door of a cupboard in your yard. The bundle was rolled up and tied with string and very dirty. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched for donkey’s years. You told the lady you didn’t know you had it and you sold it to her unexamined for ten bob and nobody’s complaining or blaming you or suspecting you of anything.’

‘Are you telling me,’ Mr Bagg said with a change of manner, ‘that she struck it lucky? Is that the lay?’