Murder Adrift by George Bellairs Page A

usual gusto.
    â€˜Come and have some coffee whilst I have mine, then, and we’ll exchange information about our adventures at last evening’s dinner.’
    Hopkinson took his loose-leaf notebook and placed it on the table. Apparently he had written up in it full details of his encounter with J. J. Dawson, all they had said to each other and his own impressions and comments on the interviews. Either he had stayed up later after retiring the night before or else got up very early, for his record covered many pages. Littlejohn had finished his frugal breakfast before the recital ended.
    â€˜I’m sorry that I haven’t put my impressions of my encounter with Lever in as orderly and comprehensive a manner as yours, Hopkinson, but, with the exception of the fact that Dawson was well lubricated with alcohol, whereas Lever had drunk only mineral water, your information tallies very closely with mine.’
    â€˜Then, it would seem, each confirms the other’s tale . . .?’
    â€˜In a way, yes. It also suggests that they’ve talked all this over before we came on the scene and arranged what they’d tell us and, perhaps, what they’d withhold. Why should they do that?’
    â€˜Are you suggesting, sir, they might have something to do with the crime?’
    â€˜Or that, as old servants of the company and family, they don’t wish to divulge family secrets or anything which might incriminate the Todds. Try to get to know a littlemore about them. The police here might help you there, or some chatterbox at the bar. But first I want you to come with me sick-visiting his worship the mayor. He was so confused and emotional last night that I couldn’t get a coherent statement from him. He’ll probably be better this morning. We’ll go right away.’
    There was an interruption, however. In their enthusiasm for modern things the directors of the
Trident
had installed a loud-speaker, controlled from the reception office, in each of the principal rooms. This contraption now came into operation like a fog-horn.
    â€˜If Chief Superintendent Littlejohn is in the hotel will he kindly take a telephone call at the reception desk . . .?’
    The alarm was sounded once again for good measure.
    Littlejohn reported as requested and was told his call was in Cabin No. 1.
    The voice was low and hurried and he couldn’t make out what the caller was saying.
    â€˜Please speak louder . . . I can’t . . .’
    The voice was raised slightly.
    â€˜I must see you right away. This is Mrs. Hector Todd. Can you call here as soon as possible? Insist on seeing me . . . Insist. . . .’
    The voice died away and there was a click as the line went dead.
    Littlejohn slowly replaced the instrument.
    Here was a matter for careful treatment. Of course, the local police had plainly hinted that anything concerning the Todds should be handled with discretion, but this was something tricky. Was Mrs. Hector’s telephoning unknown to old Mrs. Todd? The brief message had a cloak-and-dagger flavour. A cry for help from someone imprisoned! Was the old lady keeping Lucy, Heck’s widow, out of theway of the police? If so, a further call at the Big House might be full of difficulties.
    He told Hopkinson what had happened.
    â€˜I think we’ll see what her doctor has to say about Mrs. Hector Todd. I don’t know who’s her doctor, but I met Dr. Macmannus last night at Pollitt’s. We’ll try him first.’
    The doctor lived in a gracious old Georgian house at the end of a row almost facing Pollitt’s. It had a fine doorway and three storeys with plain sash windows overlooking the High Street. This had obviously been a doctor’s residence for a long time; there remained on the door frame a couple of well-polished brass bell-knobs, one marked
Night,
and the funnel of a speaking-tube now probably out of commission. Then a simple modern brass plate,
Dr. Macmannus.
Littlejohn