Death Before Breakfast by George Bellairs

far.’
    Cromwell went off reluctantly and on his departure, gloom seemed to fall upon July Street again. With the night came the thin melancholy November drizzle. The main road at the end of the street was still busy with traffic making its way home to the suburbs from London, and heavy traffic bound for the city. The headlights of the passing cars looked dim and yellow from where he stood and the street lamps were again surrounded by haloes of thin rain. He turned up his collar and made for No. 19.
    Nothing moved in the street. Everyone was at homeeating the evening meal. In some of the lighted houses the blinds had not been drawn and he could see families gathered at tables in the front rooms. He was almost at the gate of No. 19, when he heard footsteps approaching. A small fat man wobbled along the footpath, his hands in the pockets of a reefer jacket. He had a cloth cap on his head and a short pipe in his mouth. He approached Littlejohn as though he’d known him all his life.
    â€˜Superintendent Littlejohn?’
    He was without a coat and the rain sparkled on his thick jacket. He wore a collar without a tie and a brass stud shone in his neckband.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You in charge of the case of the chap who was killed here early Wednesday morning?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Littlejohn wondered if the man was going to give him some vital information. Instead, he gave a brief snort.
    â€˜I’m Sam Barnes, owner of the garage just across the main road there.’
    He looked like an ex-sailor gone to seed. He was enormously fat with short thick legs, a clean-shaven heavy face and close clipped hair. Hardly the sort you see in the motor-trade. More like an old salt. He was full of self-assurance.
    â€˜I live just round the corner, a bit beyond the church.’
    â€˜By the recreation ground?’
    â€˜Yes. You seem to know the geography of the neighbourhood already. But it’s no use you askin’ me questions. I was fast asleep in bed when the woman said she saw the murdered man. Seven o’clock, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜What do you think of the affair? I see from the evenin’ paper that they’ve identified the body. A Frenchman. A cat-burglar, was it?’
    â€˜A jewel thief.’
    â€˜Don’t tell me he was after jewellery in July Street. That’s a good one, that is. Jewellery in July Street. …’
    He roared with laughter and shook like a jelly.
    â€˜Can’t be that he tried ’is hand at one of the houses and met his match, can it?’
    â€˜I couldn’t say, Mr. Barnes. We’re only just starting on the case.’
    â€˜Looks as if it’s goin’ to be a teaser, too.’
    â€˜How long have you been in these parts?’
    â€˜I was born here, but travelled a bit before I came back to settle down. Was in the buildin’ trade in the war and after it all ended, I decided to take it easier. Bought this garage here, put a manager in, and worked a bit less. …’
    He knocked his pipe out on his heel.
    â€˜You’ve chosen a bad night to come on duty. What about a drink with me at the
Admiral Rodney
just round the corner there?’
    â€˜I’m sorry. I think I’d better get on with the job and be on my way home out of this drizzle. Thanks. Perhaps another time, Mr. Barnes.’
    â€˜Any time. So long, then. …’
    He toddled away with short firm steps and vanished into the mist.
    Littlejohn rang the bell at No. 19. There was a long silence and then the door opened. It was Miss Macready. She peered at Littlejohn, recognised him, and laughed nervously.
    â€˜I wondered whoever was calling at this time of night. We don’t usually have visitors after dark.’
    â€˜Is your brother at home, please?’
    She hesitated.
    â€˜He’s fast asleep in his room. As I think he told you – he tells everyone – he’s no slave of time or routine. He works