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

much difficulty. He carefully noted the span from the permanent way to the first step into the carriage. It was not excessive. In fact, a child could have managed it. The rain had completely washed away any traces that might have remained on the outside. Not that there would have been any distinctive ones on the battered, badly painted exterior.
    It was the same inside the compartment. Everything had been left as it was when the murder was discovered. Filthy piece of worn carpet on the floor, presumably to distinguish first from third class … Cigarette ends, spent matches, bits of paper. Blinds torn and bedraggled and the netting of the luggage rack dangling in large holes. Pictures of holiday resorts fading in frames above the seats, Llandudno, Ribble Valley, Bournemouth and Port Erin, I.O.M. A cracked mirror with a label stuck on it.
Repair: broken mirror.
    A really sordid setting for what looked like turning out to be a sordid crime.
    The whistle of an incoming train sounded and Littlejohn locked the compartment. After the inquest on the morrow it would probably be put back into service, bloodstains and all.
    The guardian bobby had his mouth empty this time and his helmet on. He sprang to attention and salutedsmartly, hand and arm trembling with tension. Littlejohn gave him a cheery nod and handed back the key.
    â€œThat was better,” muttered the constable to himself. “Impressed him that time.” And he set about his meat and drink again with relish, consuming both at once, copiously.
    Littlejohn was just in time to see Cromwell step from the train and have his hat blown off by the gale. He caught sight of his assistant’s bowler and what he called his showerproof—a cross between an overcoat and a fawn raincoat—with a large expanse of white collar above it. Then the wind seized the hat and blew it right out to sea. It was later found in a dock basin many miles up the coast and, suspecting a suicide, the powers-that-be there dragged the water unsuccessfully …
    Cromwell was disconsolate and needed dinner and a drink before he regained his good spirits, which were not
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at the best of times. Littlejohn told him all about the crime over stewed mutton, carrots, soapy potatoes and spongy rice pudding. Fortunately the beer was good.
    â€œSo now, Cromwell, I propose to pay a visit to Miss Emmott at her home and discreetly find out something about the private life of Mr. Bellis. I don’t know what sort of a house she lives in. 21, Warrender Street, Mereton, is the address Forrester gave me. A place where a virtuous policeman must take a chaperon. That’ll be you, Cromwell.”
    â€œYes, sir. When do we start?” said the sergeant, who seemed to be washing the beer round his mouth to take away the flavour of the pudding.
    â€œAs soon as we can. The police car’s calling at seven-thirty.”
    â€œI’ve not got a hat … and the shops ’ll all be closed. I’ll have to put my cap on …”
    They started out with Cromwell wearing a check tweed cap, which suited him very well but which embarrassed him as being unsuitable gear in which to investigate murder.
    They were in for a surprise at Mereton. 21, Warrender Street was a shop. Littlejohn shone his torch on the sign above the door.
    BESSIE EMMOTT,
Licensed to sell Ale, Porter and Tobacco.
To be consumed OFF the Premises.
    There was no window display. Only an orderly row of empty beer bottles and advertisements for ale, stout and tobacco.
    A spring bell over the door rang as the two detectives entered. A woman was standing on the customers’ side of the counter with two empty jugs before her. Three beer pumps fixed at the end of the counter. Bottled beers and stout, packets of cigarettes and tobacco on the shelves behind. Little else for sale.
    Nobody answered the bell. The woman, a little shrivelled shrimp with a shawl thrown over her head, had apparently been making no effort to attract