Murder Adrift Read Online Free PDF Page A

sympathiser, and bought him a double brandy.

Chapter 3

Strange Interview
    The Town Hall clock was striking eight when Littlejohn awoke. Then the carillon battled hesitantly through
All Things Bright and Beautiful.
He hadn’t slept very well, because the clock chimed the quarters and struck the hours all through the night. Although Littlejohn didn’t know it, there was contention going on between the regulars of the
Trident
and the burgesses of Fordinghurst; the former agitating for the stoppage of the clock during the hours of darkness and the latter, with the exception of the mayor, stubbornly set against any silencing of what had been going on for over 300 years.
    When Littlejohn looked down from his window the sun was shining over the port. Already some of the boats had left and the white sails of early risers were visible on the horizon. On some of the other craft, still tied up, men were tinkering about making ready for off and the crane was busy hoisting containers from a ship which had arrived during the night.
    On his way to breakfast he met a new arrival, a sunburnt hearty man who was obviously in on the tide andwas shouting greetings familiarly to the staff and anyone else interested.
    â€˜Here we are again. . . .’
    There were dregs of coffee and the remains of bacon and eggs on the cup and plate still on Littlejohn’s table. Albert arrived solicitously brandishing a menu card.
    â€˜Has my colleague had breakfast already, Albert?’
    â€˜Yes, sir. He was down about eight and I saw him later entering the police station.’
    Littlejohn ate a leisurely breakfast and read the morning paper. One or the other of the local reporters had done well for himself and his effort occupied a column and a half. There were pictures as well. The body being carried ashore to the ambulance and another of Littlejohn and Hoppy talking with Bradfield at the door of the police station. That ought to please Hoppy!
MURDER AT SEA
SCOTLAND YARD GALLED IN
    The quiet little yachtsmen’s paradise, Fordinghurst, suddenly found itself on the map yesterday . . . The mayor, Mr. Samuel Pollitt, was confident that the case would soon be solved. ‘Although this is a quiet little place, our C.I.D. is first-class,’ he told me
. . . .
    â€˜Where is Todds’ warehouse, Albert?’
    â€˜Right opposite over the bridge, sir.’
    There was a swing bridge across the river where it joined the harbour, and a main road ran along the far bank. Beyond, a long low building with a traffic entrance under an archway. It might at one time have been a small brewery built of stone and a large extension in brick had been made later. Littlejohn lit his pipe and strolled across.
    He found himself in the older part of the town. Behind Todds’ place there were old houses and some narrow streets and, by the waterside, a neglected shipbuilder’s yard with a small partly-finished boat on the stocks.
    Littlejohn made his way through the archway and into the cobbled yard beyond, where lorries were being loaded with cases of bottled red and white wine. Casks were standing about in corners and there was a pleasant smell of alcohol on the air. It emerged from a wide doorway labelled
Bottling Dept.
A man standing for long in the main blast might find himself half-drunk in a very short time. In passing, Littlejohn examined one of the empty casks and a workman taking tally in a book of all the crates which were loaded paused to greet him.
    â€˜Good morning, sir. Those casks are getting a bit out of date now. They do say that soon the wine will come over in tankers. . . .’
    The new wing stood on one side of the yard and there were the administrative buildings indicated by a sign,
Offices.
Littlejohn crossed the cobbles without any interference from the group of men handling cases and rolling barrels around. After so much shaking and hurling about, the reverential serving of the wine by waiters and fussy drinkers seemed a