Surfeit of Suspects (British Library Crime Classics) by George Bellairs

Author:George Bellairs [Bellairs, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, Sussex, small town, murder, explosion, mystery, Littlejohn, classic, detective
Publisher: British Library Publishing
Published: 2019-04-26T05:00:00+00:00

‘I’d like to take this with me, if you please.’

The policeman looked surprised.

‘I can’t make head or tail of it. It says something about a takeover. Who’d want to take over a bankrupt business like the Excelsior?’

‘We’ll have to find out, won’t we?’ said Cromwell and he put the envelope carefully in his black notebook.

‘Where would I be likely to find Mrs. Dodd? She was at the seaside, I hear, when Dodd met his death. I suppose she came home.’

‘She came back, but I don’t know where she is at present. Her father is Alderman Vintner, a would-be big-shot of the town and a member of the council watch committee. So you’d better be careful. I can’t think Mrs. Dodd would go back to her father’s place. He quarrelled with Dodd and, from what I hear, cut off Mrs. Dodd with a shilling because she came down on Dodd’s side.’

‘Where is the Dodds’ home?’

‘They moved not long ago to a bungalow in Strathallan Road, in the new town. I don’t know where they got the money from, but they did. It seemed funny to everybody at the time, Dodd buying a new house and the Excelsior nearly bust.’

‘I’ll be off to Strathallan Road, then. How do I find it?’

The bobby conducted Cromwell to a large map of the neighbourhood which covered one wall of the charge room and laboriously gave him directions.

It was raining hard outside and Cromwell borrowed a police car; the driver took him straight to the Dodds’ new house. It stood in a long road of new property, with houses springing up like mushrooms. Rows and rows of them and excavations still going on. Water the colour of milky tea poured from the new sites, along the gutters of the road, and vanished down the grilles. There was hardly anyone about. The builders’ men had fled for shelter from the rain and were drinking tea in half-erected properties.

Cromwell turned in at the gate of Dodd’s bungalow. He winced at the name. Dunromin. It somehow sounded like Dodd. It was one of the better type on the estate, standing in about half an acre of land, and the front garden was only half turned over.

A woman passed with an umbrella raised and a dog dragging along on a tight rein.

‘There’s nobody at home,’ she said.

Cromwell wondered how she knew, but hurried along the asphalt drive and rang the bell. There was a peal of bells behind the door. But no answer. The inquisitive woman with the half-choked dog was waiting for him.

‘Didn’t I tell you there was nobody at home…’

And she went on without another word, obviously satisfied at having won the rubber.

‘Now what?’

The driver of the police car asked the question rhetorically, for he knew his advice would be asked.

‘I might say the same to you.’

‘She might have made it up with her dad, now that Dodd’s dead. Like to try?’

‘Where does Alderman Vintner live?’

‘You’ll never guess. In a new road not far from here. It’s called Vintner Avenue.

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