The Litmore Snatch

Book 675: Murder Room

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Harborough is a large seaside town on the north-east coast of England, whose local paper, the Harborough Post, mounts a campaign against the city's funfairs. Soon the proprietor of the newspaper, Herbert Litmore, gets two anonymous threatening letters, which he takes to the Chief Constable. Then Litmore's ten-year-old son, Ben, is kidnapped on his way home from the city Youth Club. Another letter to Litmore follows, demanding a £10,000 ransom . . . A search is begun to locate Litmore's mysterious enemy, and the police investigation starts to unravel a web of greed, jealousy, adultery and blackmail that has formed beneath Harborough's quiet surface.

Release date: May 14, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

The Chief Constable of Harborough had called his senior officers in conference. They sat now in his office, not comfortably round a table on which they could write and rest
their arms, but on hard Windsor chairs distributed round the room. The Chief Constable liked it this way because he could sit in majesty behind his big writing-table; he felt there, perhaps, as a
king does—or used to—on his throne, with quite important people sitting in front of him in much less important seats. No doubt the arrangement gave him confidence—or would have
done if he had been in need of it, but in fact Mr. Faidlaw was an extremely able man, intelligent, quietly firm, sure of himself and of the men and the one woman who sat in front of him now.

His Assistant Chief Constable, Mr. Hyde, sat near him in the only reasonably comfortable chair, and in addition to him there were seven Chief Superintendents or Superintendents—six in
uniform, one in plain clothes—and the Inspector of Women Police. The Chief Constable himself was nearly sixty years old, but the others were appreciably younger, varying from thirty-seven to
fifty-five. Mr. Faidlaw held definite views on the subject of age; he did not encourage his senior officers to extend their service once they had reached pensionable age. It was a policy not
entirely popular with the City Watch Committee because it often meant losing good men in their prime—and a swollen pension list; some of the chief officers themselves did not like it, because
pension is not full pay, and retirement, even busy retirement, is not the same life as that which a responsible senior police officer lives. But Faidlaw believed that a live police force needed the
incentive of steady and rapid promotion, so, with however much regret, he let his good officers go into retirement, and in front of him now were men in the prime of life, not a hardened artery
among them, men of good average or above-average intelligence, well-trained and absolutely devoted to their chief. And one very intelligent woman. Altogether a fine, capable team of crime fighters.
And they needed to be.

The City of Harborough plays for the east coast of England much the same part, though on a smaller scale, that Liverpool does for the west. True, there is here no Atlantic Ocean, with America
and Canada beckoning to the great liners and the varied merchant vessels which sail down the Mersey; but there is the North Sea and beyond it Germany with its booming trade, Scandinavia, and even
Russia—potential customer of boundless possibilities. Still, it is not the harbours and docks that have so miraculously vitalised this east coast city in the post-war years; it is the great
airport, developed with fine enterprise and courage by the City Council, that has brought prosperity and ever more ambitious plans to the city’s traders. Plans wise and unwise, sound
investment, risky speculations, the good and the bad all jumbled together in a rush of development that not even the Town and Country Planning Act could control.

Money has poured into Harborough in the ten years since Eisenhower received the German surrender at Rheims. Money, and people after money, honestly or . . . anyhow, after money. It has been the
task of Mr. Roger Faidlaw and his officers to keep a step ahead of the less honest seekers after fortune; if not a step ahead, then the shortest possible step behind, so that a blue-clad arm can
stretch out and a hand come firmly down upon the erring shoulder.

“There’s just one thing more, gentlemen,” said the Chief Constable at the end of a long hour’s discussion of the current problems. “The press are having another of
their anti-crime campaigns—you will all have noticed that. ‘Unsolved crime in Harborough,’ ‘What are our police doing?’—all that sort of thing.”

Mr. Faidlaw gave a rather undignified sniff and paused for a moment.

“I shouldn’t pay much attention to it,” he went on, “but for one thing—two things, rather. In the first place, the national press have taken it up, one or two of
them. And secondly, the Post is in it now, which it has not been previously. The proprietor of the Post, as you probably know, is Mr. Herbert Litmore, a man of substance and
responsibility. I have a good deal of respect for Mr. Litmore.”

The Chief Constable glanced round the room. One or two of his Superintendents nodded, as if in agreement with this sentiment, but nobody spoke. Probably they felt that press opinions, even those
expressed by the Harborough Post, were not matters which busy Police Superintendents need waste their time discussing. But Mr. Faidlaw had not finished.

“The Post’s particular line is the iniquity of Fun Fairs. Apparently the editor—or somebody—thinks that behind the vulgarities and the rigged pin-tables there is
some organised crime and vice going on. Gambling and pigeon-plucking I can believe, but I am doubtful about the serious vice. One of the things we pride ourselves on in Harborough is the low
prevalence of offences against women and girls, and for that I think we have in large measure to thank you, Miss Bonny—you and your girls.”

To her furious annoyance Inspector Bonny realised that she was blushing—blushing with pleasure at this praise from a man she so greatly admired. It was a failing of which she had never
been able to cure herself and, together with her—she thought—entirely unsuitable Christian and surnames, had been a bane to her career in the police. Her good looks, on the other hand,
she regarded as an asset; men appreciated good looks in a woman, and June Bonny was quite capable of seeing to it that nothing more than appreciation came into the matter.

She murmured a quiet “Thank you, sir,” and said no more.

“Well, however that may be,” went on the Chief Constable, “the Post has turned the heat on to Fun Fairs, and apparently somebody doesn’t like that. Mr. Litmore
came to see me last night and told me that he had been receiving threatening letters on the subject. He tore the first one up, but the tone of the second one was more aggressive and he brought it
round here. Nothing very original about it.”

Mr. Faidlaw picked up a clip which held a half-sheet of paper.

“Capital letters. DROP YOUR ATTACKS ON FUN FAIRS. IF NOT YOU’LL PAY HEAVY. YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO THROW STONES.”

He held the clip out towards the officer in plain clothes.

“There you are, Mr. Dale. I don’t suppose you’ll find any prints to help you, but you’d better work on it. Paper, pen, ink and so on—you know. Now, gentlemen, this
may just be a joke or a stunt of some kind, but I want it stopped. Will those of you who have Fun Fairs in your Divisions please look into the matter? A word with the proprietors will probably be
enough. Any questions?”

No questions.

“Then that will be the lot. Thank you. Stay behind, Mr. Jonnison, please.”

The Superintendent who remained in reply to this order was a stockily built man of medium height; he had dark hair and a short dark moustache and was in general a handsome man with a rather hard
mouth. He had the reputation of taking both himself and his work very seriously and his Chief Constable had a high opinion of him. Superintendent Jonnison was in charge of the Park Division, which
contained a large proportion of the more desirable residences in Harborough.

On the walls of the Chief Constable’s office hung photographs of his predecessors, together with a rather crude colour-print of the Queen. There also hung a large-scale map of the City of
Harborough, showing the Divisions in which the City Police Force was organised. Park (Supt. Jonnison), Central (Chief-Supt. Prince), North Harbour (Supt. Bellamy), Overdale (Supt. Smithy), South
Mitts (Chief-Supt. Clatt); the last named was the largest, most thickly populated, and the most difficult from a police point of view.

Mr. Faidlaw walked across to the map and studied it carefully.

“You’ve got none of these Fairs in your Division, have you, Jonnison?”

“Only one, sir—the Venusberg in Port Street, just where my boundary joins North Harbour Division. The name’s a bit misleading, really; I don’t think anything very
exciting goes on there in the Venus line.”

“Who owns it?”

“Chap called Oldwistle, sir; quite a character. The Venusberg is only a side-line for him; he has a lot of irons in the fire—shop property, boats, a garage; I’ve an idea he has
an interest in some Holiday Camps too.”

Mr. Faidlaw seemed to have lost interest in the subject. He turned away from the map.

“Mr. Litmore is one of your parishioners, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir; got a fine house on the north side of Clitton Park—bit old-fashioned, I believe, but very comfortable.”

The Chief Constable stood behind his desk, tapping a cigarette thoughtfully on the blotter. He was silent for so long that Jonnison, standing respectfully by the chair on which he had previously
sat, wondered whether the Chief had forgotten all about him. Mr. Faidlaw’s next words answered that doubt.

“I have decided to tell you something, Mr. Jonnison, that is known, I believe, only to Mr. Hyde and myself . . . and, of course, to Chief Superintendent Yuke.” (Yuke was the Chief
Clerk.) “I have a feeling that these letters to Mr. Litmore are genuine, though not necessarily quite what they appear. It seems to me possible that they may involve blackmail, and that is
why I am going to tell you what very few people indeed know. I needn’t impress on you that it must not, without my permission, go any further.”

Superintendent Jonnison did not propose to make any comment on that one. Mr. Faidlaw continued:

“Very early in his life Mr. Litmore blotted his copy-book. He was convicted of a cheque forgery and he went inside for six months. When he came out his firm took him back, and he
hasn’t put a foot wrong since. That business happened in the South—I forget just where; after a year or two he moved up here, and I don’t believe a whisper of the story came with
him. Except, of course, to us. Litmore has built himself a reputation of complete integrity and I believe he deserves it; he also has made a lot of money and, with his business interests and
particularly his newspaper, he has a lot of power—which he uses well. But if somebody has got hold of that forgery story and can prove, or even pretend to prove it, then he is a sitting
target for blackmail.”

“I quite see that, sir.”

Superintendent Jonnison’s expression was normally rather wooden and he did not show any sign of being greatly interested—though no doubt he was.

“I thought it better to tell you this because if he is being attacked you must have all the necessary information to help you in the matter. And also because now you know there
are grounds for blackmail you will realise the importance of piping that down as much as you possibly can. Understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Well, all right then. Better see your friend Oldwistle, though I doubt if he’s the type—from what you say—to send anonymous threatening letters.”

The Chief Constable sat down, flicked a switch on his intercom; Jonnison, recognising the signal, quietly left the office. Out in the open air he looked at his wrist-watch and frowned. He had
counted on having a clear evening, so far as his work was concerned, but he knew his Chief well enough to realise that Mr. Oldwistle must be seen now; it was past five and the entrepreneur
was not the type to linger in his office. As it happened, this office—the office of Oldwistle Enterprises—was in the same street as the Venusberg, though the latter was probably only a
minor operation. In any case the office was in his “parish,” so there was no need for formalities with some other Superintendent.

Jonnison had not brought his car to Headquarters, and as he walked through the streets he enjoyed the nip of the early April evening with its unmistakable tang of the sea even at this far side
of the big city. But it was an unconscious enjoyment, as his mind was concentrated on the work ahead of him and he did not notice the gulls swooping low over the houses or the little specks of
green showing on tree and bush wherever such things grew in the crowded streets.

Soon they grew more freely, as he reached his own more spacious neighbourhood, with its gardens and well-kept squares, with a hint of a park beyond. But he only touched the fringe of this, and
for a time plunged back into the busy commercial area through which Port Street ran.

The office of Oldwistle Enterprises was by no means pretentious, but it was certainly busy. It was an old house, adapted for its present purpose, and what had been the dining-room on the ground
floor was a general office in which three girl typists, an office-boy and an older man were at work. One of the girls left her chair to attend to Superintendent Jonnison and, appearing in no way
overawed by his uniform, asked him to take a chair while she enquired if Mr. Oldwistle would see him. Half a minute later she was leading him upstairs.

The proprietor’s own room was of similar character; no thick-piled carpet but reasonable comfort combined with efficiency. That description might be applied to Sam Oldwistle himself; he
was a large, clean-shaven man of about fifty, florid and running to fat, with a pair of small, pig-like but normally twinkling eyes. He rose from behind his large desk and came forward to greet his
visitor with outstretched hand.

“Well, Mr. Superintendent,” he said; “this is a pleasure. At least, I hope it is. Nothing wrong, eh?”

“I hope not, sir; just an enquiry I have to make.”

“Holy Mike, you’ve no need to call me ‘Sir,’ Mr. Jonnison. Sit you down. And we’ll have a drop of Scotch to start us.”

“Not for me, thanks, Mr. Oldwistle. On duty, you know. But don’t let me stop you.”

Sam Oldwistle stumped to a corner cupboard, brought out a bottle of Johnny Walker and a syphon, slammed them on his desk and stumped back for two tumblers.

“When we’ve finished duty,” he said. “Now, what’s the trouble?”

“You are interested in a Fun Fair, I believe, Mr. Oldwistle.”

“Call me S . . . oh well, on duty, I suppose. The Venusberg; yes. I own that; what of it?”

“You may have noticed that the press are playing the subject of crime at the moment. One of them in particular is making a target of Fun Fairs—suggesting that they cover a lot of
gambling, vice, and so on.”

The twinkle had left Sam Oldwistle’s eyes.

“The Post, eh? Yes, I’ve noticed that. You don’t pay any attention to what that old woman says, do you, Mr. Jonnison?”

“Old woman?”

“That’s what the Post’s called. Old man really, I suppose—Herbert Litmore. Always up in the air about something—got to sell his stuffy old paper, I
suppose. Now it’s us—Fun Fairs. Surely to goodness you don’t take what the Post says as evidence? I run the Venusberg straight and decent—bit of fun, of course, bit
of slap and tickle, bit of a flutter; nothing dirty, nothing against the law. Why should that old so-and-so . . .”

Sam Oldwistle was working himself up, and Jonnison thought it as well to step in and cool him off.

“We have no complaints about the working of your Fair, Mr. Oldwistle,” he said; “if we had I should have been to see you before now. The point I’ve come to see you about
is a bit different. Someone has been writing letters to Mr. Litmore about his paper’s campaign against the Fairs. That wouldn’t be you, would it, Mr. Oldwistle?”

“Me? Write to that old . . . ? Wouldn’t waste my time. Let his paper say what it likes; it won’t hurt me. Who says I wrote to him?”

“Nobody has said so. The letters are anonymous. They also contain threats.”

That seemed to sober down the Fun Fair proprietor a bit. He looked thoughtfully at the Superintendent.

“I have never written an anonymous letter to anyone in my life,” he said carefully. “I don’t hold with such things. If you are looking for the writer you won’t find
him here. That’s definite.”

“Thank you,” said Jonnison. “That’s only what I expected. But can you help me . . . where to look?”

Oldwistle eyed his visitor thoughtfully, rubbing a fat finger across a fat chin.

“I won’t say that there hasn’t been some talk about the Post—hot talk too,” he said. “Taking bread out of honest folks’
mouths—that’s what they’re trying to do. But I don’t hold with threats, no more’n I do with anonymous letters. There’s one or two not so particular, perhaps.
Mind you, I know nothing—nothing at all—but the men who do least good to our business—the good name of Fun Fairs—and good name counts—are Brackett, of the Red Mill,
and Hodden; Hodden runs the Arabian Nights and he’s opening a place down by the docks, somewhere; I don’t know what he calls it.”

Jonnison rose to his feet. That was enough for him to pass on to the Divisional Superintendents concerned; he was quite sure that Oldwistle would tell him no more, except under pressure, and the
matter did not seem serious enough for anything of that kind. He thanked Oldwistle, again declined a drink, and left.

He looked in at the Police Station, where he had his own office, for half an hour, clearing up work that had come in during the afternoon, and then set out for home. This was a matter of a mile
or so away, in the North Harbour area, nearer the sea, and he often walked it, but tonight he had a busy evening ahead of him and he was already late, so he took a trolley-bus.

The Jonnisons, husband and wife with no children, lived in a small detached house in a good neighbourhood. It was his own house, not one belonging to the Police Authority, of rather better
quality than that enjoyed by his fellow Superintendents. This was due to the character of Mrs. Jonnison, and to the fact that she had some money of her own; to be exact, it was her house, not
Superintendent Jonnison’s.

It was a quarter to seven when Jonnison slipped his latch-key into the “art” door, with its bottle-glass window, and as soon as he was inside he heard his wife’s rather shrill
voice.

“Jim! Come up here.”

With a slight tightening of the mouth Jonnison walked up the stairs and into his wife’s bedroom, the door of which was open.

“Where on earth have you been? Do you know what time it is? Have you forgotten that we are going to the Yacht Club whist drive to-night?”

Beryl Jonnison was sitting at her dressing-table, dressing her dark curls. They had been in curlers all day, and part of the reason for her present ill-temper was that she had been caught in
them by an unexpected visitor to whom she had previously given the impression of being wholly coiffeur-dressed. She was a good-looking woman, with fine dark eyes, her appearance marred only by a
rather thin mouth. The late thirties, most people credited her with, but in fact she was two years older than her forty-one-year-old husband. These two had been in love with one another when they
married fifteen years previously, but there was no sign of love, or even affection, on their faces now.

“I do wish you would be a little more considerate of me, Jim. You know I never look my best if I am hurried, and there will be really important people there to-night. You must have a bath,
of course—the water’s hot. We will have something light to eat when you are ready. Better get the car out now, before you change. Now do run along. Oh, and switch on my wireless before
you go.”

Returning her eyes to the mirror, she did not see the look on her husband’s face as he bent to switch on the table radio beside her bed. The strains of dance-music floated on to the air as
Jim Jonnison walked downstairs, after carefully shutting the door behind him.

Beryl, concentrating on the final niceties of make-up, hardly heard the music . . . or anything else until, about ten minutes later, the door opened again and there was her husband, still in
uniform. She stared at him, her mouth opened to rebuke. . . .

“I’m sorry, dear, I can’t come to the whist drive.”

“Can’t come?”

“No. Dick’s had an accident; he’s in Newcastle Hospital. They can’t tell me much, but he’s in danger. I must get along. And I must go by car; the trains are
hopeless at this time of evening.”

“Can’t come? But you must come. I told you . . . there’ll be . . . oh, how can you be so selfish and inconsiderate?”

“I’m sorry, Beryl. I know it’s a nuisance for you. But Dick’s my brother.”

His wife’s snort of anger told him what she thought of that as a consideration.

“I will ring Hickson and tell him to send a car for you. What time? Half-past seven? Perhaps someone will give you a lift back; I doubt if I shall get back before you break
up—it’s an hour and a half’s run, even at night.”

Beryl Jonnison sat staring into her mirror, her face stiff with anger. She did not offer to cut her husband a sandwich to take on his drive; she did not even respond when he said again how sorry
he was to upset her evening and hoped that she would none the less enjoy it. He left her, went to his own room and hurriedly changed his clothes; after a few more necessary preparations he went out
to the modest Austin car that would not now be taking Mrs. Jonnison to join her important people.

It was after midnight when he returned, and his wife was already back. He knew this because on the hall table there was a note in her handwriting:

You are wante. . .