“And you stayed at the front till you reached Stainton?”
“Yuss. Doin’ odd jobs, like. Lookin’ to see if we’d anythin’ to put off at Stainton …”
“I see.”
“And you saw the chest put off at Stainton?”
“Yuss. Told a coupla men there as it were for the ’artsbury local, so they tuck it and carried it to the goods office.”
“Did they pass any remarks about the weight of it?”
“I weren’t there when they lifted it. I was busy with the train.”
“So, in your absence, it looks as though Grossman was hit over the head and put in the box.… Summing up, then: Grossman and the chest on the train at 7.45, or thereabouts …”
“Right,” said Mr. Fludd.
“Yuss,” concurred Dimsdale.
“At 7.50 you, guard, passed down the train, saw Grossman, and then left the coast clear till 8.15, when you reached Stainford, where the box was removed. Between these times the crime seems to have been committed. Did you see anything suspicious going on, guard?”
“No. The corridors isn’t lighted yet …”
“Aren’t,” pleaded Fludd.
“Isn’t. The black-out’s over, but they haven’t yet put back the lamps. Whether they’ve been lost on the station …”
“Stick to the point, Dimsdale,” roared Fludd.
“Lost on the station … The people in the two compartments between my van and Mr. Gorssman’s one was strangers. Didn’t know ’em from Adam. Prob’ly going home from ’olidays …”
“And the rest?”
“Same on the other side. You see, locals goin’ to London get the mornin’ train as a rule. Don’t wanter travel overnight. But ’oliday people like to stop on as long as they can and don’t mind the night trip at times.”
“So you can’t call to mind anybody else prominent locally?”
“No. To-in’ and from-in’ like I do, I fergets ’em, like. No, I can’t recollect …”
Mr. Fludd blew through his red beard. He would have remembered. You have to be smart and perspicacious if you aspire to a top-hat.
“Did you take a good look at the chest, guard?”
“Yuss. Looked at the label. Miss Somebody-or-other, ’artsbury. I do remember that. Orl I wanted to know wuzz where I got to put it off.”
“It was wrapped in sacking and stitched?”
“Yuss. I remember that, too.”
Gillespie interposed.
“Yes. A sort of large bag with the open top gathered or roughly sewn together. Mrs. Doakes says she fastened it securely herself with string threaded through a packing-needle. We didn’t get so far, with the inquest being adjourned, but we found the string on the floor of the van, didn’t we Dimsdale?”
“Yuss …”
“Whoever killed Grossman stitched up the cover again, roughly, with black cotton …”
“Ah! Must have been prepared for it,” suggested Littlejohn.
“Looks like it.”
The loudspeakers were barking again.
“The faw o’clock treyn, express to Lenden, will deepawt frum pletfawm faw … Pletfawm faw, Lenden express …”
“Want me any more?” anxiously asked the guard.
Fludd, too, was on his feet. He had the train to Lenden to see off. Lord Trotwoode might … If the Rolls Royce happened to crack-up, which it never did …
“I suppose you’ve both your duties to attend to,” said Littlejohn. “Thank you very much for your help. We’ll be getting along.”
Dimsdale hurried out without another word and could be heard falling down the iron staircase in his haste to get back to his faw o’clock.
Mr. Fludd put on his official cap, shrugged his jacket into its proper place on his shoulders, removed a stray piece of cotton from his pants and combed his beard into symmetry. Then he inspected the result in a looking-glass on the wall. The needles in several indicators began to dance frenziedly to the accompaniment of little bells.
Mr. Fludd led the way downstairs. It was like a royal procession. He left them at the barriers of pletfawm faw.
“Any fingerprints on the box?” asked Littlejohn as they passed the newspaper stall.
“None on the inside. That fool of a village constable, Pruddifatt or something, moved the body and let the charwoman polish the box up. Outside, the thing was so messed up we couldn’t get a clear print of any kind. There seemed to be what might have been Grossman’s, Small’s, Mrs. Doakes’s and Miss Adlestrop’s … Lot of unidentified ones, too. Scores of people would have handled a thing like that … On sale publicly. Like hunting for a needle in a haystack.”
“Yes …”
“The Lenden treyn is about chew depawt from pletfawm faw. Pessengahs faw the Gossley, Hawtsberry lane, cheynge at Steynfud. Lenden express deepawts at faw frum pletfawm faw …”
Littlejohn looked back from the exit. The fiery beaver could be seen triumphantly flaming about the middle of the train. Lord Trotwoode’s car was in dock at last and he had turned up like an answer to a stationmaster’s prayer!
5
MOTIVE?
“WHAT about motive?”
The two police officers were on their way back to the police station after interviewing Mr. Fludd. Gillespie seemed to be imparting the background of the crime on the instalment plan and Littlejohn was developing an itch to have the reins of the case in his fingers and go off on his own gathering background, as was his custom.
“None, as far as I can see. Grossman hadn’t much ready cash on him and such as he had was intact. He’d his cheque book and a gold watch as well, untouched.”
“Not robbery, then.”
“I’d say not. Harmless little chap, too. No enemies that I can find. Too innocuous. The actual smothering may, of course, have been an accident. Somebody may have tried to rob him, laid him out, and been disturbed before they could search him. So dumped him in the chest …”
“Even then, what about stitching up the sacking again?”
“That might have been done when the alarm was past.”
“Looks queer, all the same.”
Gillespie lapsed into melancholy silence again. He changed step to keep in time with his companion. He had very heavy boots and they rang like iron on the pavement. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching …
“What about the relations between Grossman and Small, Gillespie?”
“Seemed to get on all right with both Small and Mrs. Doakes. He’d no vices, either, as far as we can gather. Didn’t even smoke or drink.”
Littlejohn parked his colleague at the police station, where Gillespie had matters to attend to, and he made his way to The Seven Whistlers alone. Both Small and Mrs. Doakes were in the shop.
Small was so flabbily fat that he looked to be trundling his paunch before him like a railway-porter wheeling baggage about. He was smoking a black cheroot which he kept removing from his mouth and then replacing with a repulsive movement of his lips, like a hungry child taking the teat of a feeding-bottle.
“Who’d want to do Isidore in? Harmless enough, wasn’t he, Doris?” he said in answer to Littlejohn’s question.
Small looked across the shop at the blonde woman standing at the trinket counter. She was busy with a soldier who was buying some knick-knack or other, and giving him all she’d got in the way of sex-appeal. It seemed to leave the soldier cold.
“Mild as milk,” was her indifferent reply.
The soldier gave her a funny glance.
Littlejohn nodded. He didn’t like the looks of either Small or Mrs. Doakes.
“I believe you were in charge of the antique furniture side of the business, Mr. Small. Did the box in which Mr. Grossman’s body was found pass through your hands?”
“Nope. Mr. Grossman bought it himself at the sale. Paid too much for it in my opinion. I was a bit huffed about the way he did it. So I washed my hands of it and told him to get what he’d paid for it, if he could. He managed to sell it for a small profit.”
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“Did you examine the box?”
Small passed a big hand across his sloppy lips, spat out some bits of tobacco, replaced his cheroot and spoke round it.
“Nope. It arrived one afternoon, and the following morning, as soon as we opened, the woman came in and bought it.”
“They tell me it belonged to a Mr. Curwen, who died. Where could I find any of his family, executors, or such like?”
“His only daughter, Barbara, lives at the house. I hear she’s soon leaving town. They’ve sold off all the stuff she doesn’t want and she’s taken a smaller house somewhere else.”
“What’s her present address?”
“Laurieston, Beech Avenue. Last street at the end of the promenade. You can’t miss it …”
“Thanks. So you’ve no suggestions as to why anybody should want to do Mr. Grossman any harm?”
Small removed his ragged cheroot again. He looked hard at Littlejohn and then thrust his face close to the Inspector’s.
“Nope,” he said hoarsely.
“He was on his way to an auction in London at the time. Did he go frequently?”
“About twice in three months, as a rule. But, if there were any important sales advertised, he’d go specially as well. This was his usual routine visit.”
“Had he anything valuable with him which your firm wanted to sell?”
“Not a thing.”
“Where did he stay as a rule?”
“Good God! How many more questions? I’ve work to do.”
He didn’t look as if he had much, or if he had, he didn’t look like settling down to it!
“The address, please.”
“Ridgfields’ Hotel, off the Haymarket. Quiet family place. He’s been going there for years.”
“Where were you between eight and nine on the night Mr. Grossman died, Mr. Small?”
The dealer’s piggy little eyes flickered and he gave Littlejohn a dirty look.
“You’re not thinking that I …?”
“Not at all. A routine enquiry. Where were you?”
“It’d better only be routine, too. It might be bad for you to make insinuations of that sort …”
And Mr. Small laughed, a neighing, mirthless laugh, apparently at the thought of how bad it would be for Littlejohn.
“Well?”
“I was in the lounge of the Bay Hotel. The waiters and a lot of other regulars’ll confirm that. You needn’t waste your time tryin’ to pin this on me.”
“Thanks.”
The soldier had by this time made up his mind not to buy anything and was gone. There was nobody else in the shop, so Littlejohn repeated his question to Mrs. Doakes.
“Me?” she asked, as though astonished at the Inspector’s impudence. “Me? What should I be doing murdering anybody?”
“That’s not the point, Mrs. Doakes. Please answer.”
She tossed her head and pursed her lips. Then she boldly looked Littlejohn in the face and her squint became more manifest.
“At the pictures …”
“Which?”
“The Palace, on the prom.”
“Anyone with you?”
“No.”
Littlejohn knew by the way it was said that she was lying. Probably she’d got herself some boy friend or other and didn’t want the relationship too closely investigating.
“Not very helpful, are you, Mrs. Doakes?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s in your own interest to clear yourself …”
She put her hands on her hips and looked Littlejohn up and down as bold as brass.
“You’ve got a nerve!”
“Think it over, Mrs. Doakes. I’ll be seeing you again.”
Littlejohn made his exit decidedly of the opinion that he’d outstayed his welcome at The Seven Whistlers. Small and his niece stood glaring at him and trying to brazen it out, but they didn’t look too comfortable about it all.…
It was about teatime, but Littlejohn felt he would like to see Hartsbury and some of the people present when Mr. Grossman arrived there in his improvised coffin. He sought out The Saracen’s Head again, where Gillespie had fixed up a room for him, trotted round the revolving door, had afternoon tea and a quiet smoke, trotted into the street again and caught the ’bus for Hartsbury.
P.C. Puddiphatt, Miss Adlestrop and Councillor Blanket were the main characters at the Hartsbury end, and Blanket had taken charge when the constable’s powers and initiative gave out.
Mr. Blanket, the ’bus conductor informed him, lived in a bungalow on the outskirts of the village. You couldn’t miss it. The ’bus passed the door and he’d show Littlejohn. He’d find old Blanket in a good temper, because he’d come out top of the poll at the council elections yesterday.
There were noises like a wild west rodeo going on in Hartsbury when Littlejohn turned up. He wondered whatever was the matter. Shots, cheering and the thudding of hooves. He had not time to investigate, but turned-in at the bungalow occupied by Councillor Blanket and his housekeeper.
There was nobody at home, but a passing bread-boy informed the Inspector that Mr. Blanket was celebrating his recent victory at the Rural District elections by officiating at the village sports. He had also provided buns and coffee as a thank-offering for his recent triumph over the local Bolshie.
Following the directions of the boy, who, to show his irritation at having to work whilst everybody else was sporting on the green, tossed the loaves about contemptuously with dirty hands and even dropped a few in the nearby ditch and rescued them in a shocking condition, Littlejohn came upon the scene of the revels.
The large field was crowded with men, women and children. The women were in their best and gayest whilst the men wore the funereal hats, suits and boots which countrymen love to assume on occasions of public jollification. There was a temporary hush, for the contestants were about to start two of the heats.
Councillor Blanket was in charge of one of the running-tracks; the Rev. Mellodew Gryper, M.A.(Oxon.), the vicar, the other. There were events of all kinds, from twenty yards for babes and sucklings to a hundred and twenty yards egg-and-spoon for veterans.
Mr. Gryper was the starter for the toddlers, the sack race, the open events for men and women over forty, and the junior boys’ three-legged canter.
Mr. Blanket took the rest. He bullied and handicapped the junior and senior boys. He almost boxed the ears of the adolescent youths. He jested heavily with the women over forty (egg-and-spoon, threading-the-needle, and trimming-the-hat races), and took a particular interest in the young ladies over fifteen (100 yards flat) whom he fondly placed in their due positions and then, for many of them were dressed in shorts, he assumed a pair of glasses the better to see that they did not cheat.
Mr. Blanket, of course, started them off with a pistol.
“Get ready! Get set!!” BANG.
There was a scuffle of feet, yells of encouragement, groans and then another bang. The latter due to a patent of Mr. Alfred Adlestrop, which detonated a sort of grenade when the winner breasted the tape.
The vicar, a man of peace, released his squads with a handkerchief.
“One. Two. Three. Away!”
Mr. Gryper had a voice like an oboe, and it broke as he called the final word.
“No! No! No! Come back. I didn’t say Away …”
“One. Two. Three. AWAY …!”
The noise was not so clear as in Mr. Blanket’s crisp events.
Shuffle-shuffle, bumpity-bump, went the sack and three-legged runners. Then BANG, as another of Uncle Alfred’s whizz-bangs went up in smoke.
Uncle Alfred was at the other end, running between the two finishing tapes, fixing his infernal machines, and dancing like a wild Indian on the warpath as they went off. There was too much bombardment for some of the younger runners, who either stopped half way down the track and started to scream, or else, just before touching the tape, turned on their heels in terror of the salute to come and ran back to Mr. Blanket, who brandishe
d his pistol, or to the vicar who was shouting encouragement, impartially, of course, to one and another of the struggling mass he had one-two-three and Awayed.
“One. Two. Three. Away …! Good, good, Ethel. Come along, Alice. Oh, what a shame, Bertha. On, on, you’re winning. Ohhhhh,” he oboed, trying to urge them all on without fear or favour. He sounded at times as though somebody were murdering him, and his contortions suggested that someone might have dropped a wasps’ nest down his pants.
Between them, Mr. Blanket with his revolver and Mr. Gryper yelling his head off, they looked like two protagonists in an old-time melodrama.
Nobody seemed to have any time for Littlejohn and his murder. He thought it unwise to disturb the Councillor until he had blasted off all the contestants, so sat smoking and sunning himself on a bench until the recess for food. It was very pleasant. The sun was hot, the scenery soothing and the atmosphere one of goodwill and jollity. Littlejohn pulled his hat down over his eyes and relaxed.
The heats were finally finished. Mr. Blanket, pistol still in hand and a preposterous bowler on his head, was encouraging the young ladies, telling them how to win next time, and still wearing his glasses. The vicar, palpitating with excitement and exhaustion, was congratulating the winners, wishing everybody luck without fear or favour, and commiserating with the losers with a sort of holy gusto. A starter of heats for the kingdom of heaven’s sake!
Uncle Alfred was sitting among his detonators and smiling like a baby who has just spotted the bottle.
All the heats were over. The finals were on the morrow, with more buns and ginger pop from the successful councillor.
Mr. Blanket, Mr. Gryper and Uncle Alfred foregathered for consultations … One in his ridiculous bowler, a symbol of some sort or another, probably Freud could have told him what. The vicar in his shovel hat, making reaping gestures with his arms. The harvest was truly great and the labourers few … And then Uncle Alfred wearing his straw boater which looked to be made of breakfast cereal.
“The handicapping for the young ladies’ race … just a little bit too easy for the larger girls, don’t you think, sir?”
Councillor Blanket towered over the vicar like a furious John Bull after the lion’s tail had been tweaked. But, by jingo, if we do …!!!
The Case of the Seven Whistlers Page 4