Death on the Last Train by George Bellairs Read Free Book Online

unsteadily.
    Poor table linen, tea cosies, cutlery in the drawers. Bottles galore in the cupboards. Whisky, chutney, jam, pickles, empty siphons. A squalid medley of stuff collected by men pigging along in the way of food and drink.
    Finally, in the corner, a combination bureau and bookcase.
    â€œWhat’s in this?” said Littlejohn.
    â€œThat’s what they locked-up this mornin’. Private papers and such of the boss. Even locked up the books. As if I’d pinch ’em.”
    â€œI’ll have a look at these before I go. I’ve got the keys.”
    Forrester had handed them to Littlejohn as he left the police station.
    Upstairs it was the same. Beds unmade in airless rooms. Floors dirty, linen scattered about. Drawers filled with junk and worn linen. But nothing useful in the case, except a box of cartridges in a handkerchief drawer. Littlejohn pocketed these and Tarrant told again the tale of the revolver he’d already told Forrester.
    â€œI thought Mr. Bellis had a valuable collection of china and such like at his other house. What happened to it?”
    â€œMost of it lost in the fire. Damn shame. Somebody set fire to the place. If I could …”
    â€œAll right. Was any of it saved?”
    â€œNot much. What was, was sold. Mr. Bellis ’ad got to sellin’ as much as ’e could. Lost a lot of ’is money, as I said before, and drank away a lot more. Not that I blame ’im, with all ’is troubles. Even sold the late Mrs. B.’s jewellery. Cried, ’e did, when it came to partin’ with that. ‘Tarrant,’ ’e said, ‘Who’d ’a thought I’d ’a come down to this?’ ‘Never you mind, boss,’ I sez …”
    â€œVery well …”
    They looked through the empty, forlorn rooms. Four upstairs, two down. All of them full of dust, dry rot anddamp. Littlejohn found himself wondering where Bellis would have ended if someone hadn’t killed him. It was almost a mercy …
    â€œNow for the desk …”
    Littlejohn opened the drawers and the top of the bureau. A dirty jumble of old bills, pamphlets, circulars, notepaper and envelopes and heaven knew what else. It would take hours to examine it properly.
    â€œThat belonged to Mrs. Bellis … The boss’s desk went up in smoke at the fire,” mumbled Tarrant. He breathed whisky over Littlejohn.
    â€œI see …”
    Littlejohn turned over the papers, but those in the two top drawers seemed all alike and not of much account. The bottom drawer had contents of another kind. Packed with every type of salacious literature. The Inspector pushed the books about.
Decameron, Contes Drolatiques
in a dirty looking translation,
Selections from Rabelais
. Then some fine art editions from Paris and even a few choice medical works.
    Tarrant sniggered alcoholically.
    â€œMr. Bellis had a pretty taste in literature, I see,” said Littlejohn closing and locking the drawers again. “Let’s see what his real bookcase has in store.”
    The shelves behind the glass doors were filled with a different kind of matter. The bottom ones held a jumble of business books and pamphlets, jammed in anyway. The top line, however, was of a better class.
    â€œMrs. Bellis’s, those was,” explained the goggling Tarrant.
    A few books of poetry, Mrs. Beeton, novels of twenty years ago, little dainty collections of bright thoughts and sayings. Littlejohn took them out one by one and examined them. About a score of them in all, bearing the name of Helen More, or else Helen Blandford.
    â€œMaiden name More; first ’usband Blandford, see?” explained Tarrant, still breathing hard at Littlejohn’s side and owlishly interested in his every movement.
    There was one book wedged out of sight behind the rest. Bound in morocco leather with gilt edges. A collection of poetry. Littlejohn turned the fly leaf. There was an inscription, and some