“And you’re sure you haven’t seen it before and that it wasn’t there when Grossman’s body arrived?”
“Quite sure.”
“H’m. I’ll take it with me, if you please. It may be nothing, but I’d better keep it.”
“By all means. Although I don’t see the connection.”
“Nor do I at present. When was the flag-day, do you remember?”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t say. It wasn’t held whilst I was in Fetling and there wasn’t one in Hartsbury … No, I can’t help you, Inspector.”
“Thank you, all the same. And I’m very grateful to you for all your help and for the refreshment, Miss Adlestrop.”
The rain had ceased. There was a ’bus due in ten minutes, so Littlejohn bade Miss Adlestrop good-bye and made his way to the centre of the village.
The band was finishing its day in the village hall, which vibrated from the dancing of those who had managed to keep dry. The large, red face of Councillor Blanket rotated past one of the windows as he cavorted with one of the pretty girls of the place. He saw Littlejohn, but pretended not to.…
7
MARK CURWN’S BOX
A BOLD-LOOKING maid with good looks which would probably one day lead her into trouble, opened the door of Laurieston to Littlejohn.
“Miss Curwen’s out, but should be back any time. Would you care to wait?”
The house was higgledy-piggledy from preparations for removal, but the maid took Littlejohn to a moderately tidy room, albeit the pictures had been removed from the walls, leaving light patches where they had been hanging. The whole place was bare of ornaments.
At the front door stood a large pantechnicon.
HOAR AND COMPANY
Furniture Removers
By Road, Rail or Sea.
In neighbouring rooms you could hear the removers’ men busy at the job. They sounded to be taking the furniture to pieces to get it out and were banging and hammering as though in a frenzy.
Now and then there was a scuffling sound, and two grey-headed workers and a young one with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth appeared, carried a sideboard or a table down the weed-grown drive and dumped it in the van without any ceremony.
“I suppose you’ll soon be out of a job, if Miss Curwen’s removing.”
Littlejohn was sitting smoking on a packing-case, hoping that Miss Curwen wouldn’t be long.
The maid tossed her head.
“Plenty more, and better. I shan’t be long out of a place.”
She sniggered as though challenging Littlejohn to deny it.
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough. Five years.”
“Like it?”
“So so. It was all right when Mr. Mark was alive. A good master, he was. Miss Barbara’s a bit short and snappy. Specially since Mr. Mark died. A change’ll do me good.”
“Do you remember the oak box that was sold by auction recently?”
“The one the body was put in? Coo, rather! Dusted it many a time. I little thought when I was doin’ it that …”
“Yes, yes. What was kept in it when your late master was alive?”
“Silver plate and sometimes money.”
“Indeed. And who kept the key?”
“Mr. Mark kept it.”
“The only one?”
“There was only one. Or so they said …”
“What do you mean, ‘So they said’?”
“Well, Mr. Mark used to lock up his loose cash in the box. It’s a bit of a stretch to the bank from here and he’d keep a few pounds handy about the house. He complained a time or two about notes bein’ missin’. Once he said it looked as if somebody else could get in his box as well as himself. But he was that absent-minded—he very likely lost count of what he’d got, or else took the money himself and forgot. But you mentionin’ it just reminded me of what he said.”
The girl bent down to a large mirror standing on the floor and by a feat of turning and twisting managed to see the reflection of her face in it, and pat her hair and adjust it to her satisfaction.
In the next room Hoar and Co. were busy again. There was a lot of scraping, clattering and banging and then somebody started to play the piano. It was not by any means an expert effort. The soloist picked out the tunes by ear and they were almost unrecognisable.
The girl flounced off to investigate, and Littlejohn was left alone.
There were sounds of arguing next door, and then a voice thundered out:
“Get out! You are no son of mine …”
Littlejohn, tired of waiting, went off to find the girl.
Sitting on a swivel piano-stool was the young man of the removers’ party. His cigarette still dangled from his mouth. In front of him was a tall, white-haired, heavy man with a large nose, tinted by heavy drinking. It was Mr. William Hoar, denouncing his son for waywardness. By his side stood another old man, a better preserved replica of William. This was Mr. Ernest Hoar, proprietor of Hoar and Company. A long bi-forked white beard was suspended from his chin. He looked like Father Christmas. All had on green baize aprons and white jackets with H & Co. on the pockets.
“You are no son of mine …”
“Withdraw your curse, William,” said Father Christmas in stern tones. “Or withdraw yourself from my employ.”
William had once been a travelling actor, who, out of a job, had joined his brother in the removing business. He loved to dramatise everything. In the course of his touring he had begotten a son and become a widower at the same time. The son was also in the business, but, since a turn in the forces, had shown a disinclination to knuckle under to his parent, who spent his time in denouncing him as a result.
Littlejohn stood in the doorway taking in the crazy scene. The maid was flushed and angry-looking, as though the prodigal son had been trying to kiss or cuddle her. Which was exactly what had been happening when his father turned up …
“Did any of you have anything to do with the oak chest until recently owned by Mr. Curwen? I mean the one which recently figured in a murder case.”
It was a shot in the dark. Littlejohn thought that as he was waiting he might as well make himself useful.
“And why should you want to know, sir? Sht, sht …”
Mr. William posed magnificently, as though defending the honour of his firm—or rather his brother’s. He was so used to drinking, when he could get at it, that he made noises as though drawing in beer from a pint pot—sht, sht.
Father Christmas nodded approval. Hoar and Company were models of discretion and pledged to secrecy concerning clients’ affairs, as their estimates stated. Estimates Free, by Road, Rail or Sea. Strictest Secrecy Maintained. Only Members of the Family engaged in the Business.
Littlejohn explained the purpose of his visit. The Hoars gathered round like a flock of crows. William’s nose glowed with enthusiasm and Ernest’s hoary beard bristled and shone until it looked like a series of fine icicles stuck on his face. The younger generation of Hoar took out another fag, jammed it in the corner of its mouth, lit it, ogled the maid and set itself to listen if nothing else.
“What about a brew of tea, Lucy? I know we’ve not long ’ad one, but another wouldn’t come amiss.”
But the maid wasn’t having any. She wasn’t going to miss anything.
“What was the information you were seeking?” asked William, looking like Hamlet interrogating his father’s ghost.
“I want to hear anything you might know about the box which was used in the recent murder. Men in your line of business sometimes have the handling of such goods. In particular, I’m trying to find out how many keys there were …”
“I’ve already told you,” interrupted Lucy. “Only one. I should know.”
“Quite right, my girl. You should know. But perhaps you don’t. You see, there may have been a spare key with it when it came here.”
Mr. Ernest Hoar spoke from somewhere in his beard. He sounded to be chewing some soft substa
nce, so muffled was his voice.
“That box belonged to Mr. Curwen for fifteen years or more. I know, because I brought it here from The Towers, when Mr. Abraham Scorer was sold-up. I remember it well. We moved Mr. Scorer in and he went bankrupt before the bill was paid. We …”
“Was there one key, or two?”
Mr. William looked annoyed.
“Let my brother finish, sht, sht …”
Mr. Ernest nodded approval, which the brother supported by sht, sht, and again sht.
“I was going to say, there was only one key.”
“You have a good memory, sir.”
“I have. I remember taking the key from the lock, placing it in an envelope, making quite sure that there was not another, and handing it over to Mr. Curwen in the envelope when we delivered it.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Sht, sht, and another sht.
A key could be heard rattling in the lock of the front door and the house-removing party suddenly broke up and started vigorously to shift the chairs and tables. A lot of old scroungers, thought Littlejohn, as he went into the hall to see who was arriving.
In the inner doorway appeared a tall, well-built, handsome woman of forty or thereabouts. She was dark, with a good, ruddy complexion, a generous mouth, smouldering eyes, and black hair which shone like gunmetal as the light caught it. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of the visitor and raised them still more when she saw Lucy emerge from among the pantechnicon men.
“A gentleman from the police, Miss Barbara.”
“Indeed. What do the police want with me? You can go, Lucy, and don’t hinder the removal men.”
“I was only …”
“That will do. I said you may go!”
No wonder the removers were hustling around! William and Ernest were busy with the piano.
“Take care with that, the pair of you. It’s too heavy for only two. Now you, Harry, give the other two a hand.”
“I just wanted a word with you, Miss Curwen, about the chest owned by your late father,” said Littlejohn, impatient to be getting away from this bedlam. “You no doubt know that it is an exhibit in connection with the murder of Mr. Grossman?”
“Come into this room, Inspector. I’m sorry things are in such a mess. I’m due to be out of here to-day. You were saying …?”
Littlejohn repeated his statement.
“Yes. I know it’s a part of the case. But what has that to do with me? It was sold and taken away before that occurred.”
She was very short about it and not at all pleased.
“Were there ever two keys to the box?”
“No. Only one. And my father always kept that in his pocket. Why?”
“The one key was in the possession of the buyer, who was miles away at the time of the crime. We’re puzzled concerning how the body got in the box without the lock’s being forced or something. And it was obviously unlocked, not forced.”
“There was only one key.”
“I see. And there was no other way? Say, a trick panel or something?”
“How absurd! No. It’s been in the family for years, and the only way of opening it was with my father’s key.”
“Thank you, Miss Curwen. I think that’s all I wanted to know. Did you ever have any dealings with Grossman and Small?”
“No. Never. They bought the box at an auction we held here not long ago. A sale of surplus furniture. Otherwise, I had nothing to do with them. Even then, the matter was settled through the auctioneer.”
“I see. Did you know either Grossman or Small?”
“I just knew Mr. Grossman casually. I’ve met him a time or two at public functions and found him a very nice gentleman. I don’t know Mr. Small at all.”
“Was Mr. Grossman generally well-liked locally?”
Miss Curwen looked really annoyed.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Inspector. Really, must we go on with this? As you can see, no doubt, I’m very busy.”
Littlejohn wondered what all the annoyance was about. Surely the question was quite a civil one.
“I’m merely trying to find out as much about the dead man as possible. Mainly, had he any enemies? That is important.”
“No doubt it is. But I can’t give you the least information about him. Why should I be able to?”
Littlejohn detected a note of anxiety in her tone. He wondered why.
“In that case, I’ll waste no more of your time, Miss Curwen. Good day, and thank you.”
Outside, the piano was on the move. The three baize-aproned men were shuffling along and the strings of the instrument twanged and resounded as they shoved it here and there, lifting it, bumping it down, and again hoisting it over obstacles.
“Go easy …”
“Careful now … sht, sht, sht …”
“We’d do with another helper down these steps … sht, sht … Might I prevail upon you, sir, to give us a hand?”
“I’m no good at moving pianos,” said Littlejohn, squeezing past and making rapidly for the gate.
He felt indignant at the nerve of the man, but when he turned and saw the trio trotting down the sloping path bearing aloft the instrument, the weight of which was hurling them onwards to what looked like certain disaster, he had to smile to himself.
He was not there to see the end of the incident.
8
RIDGFIELD’S HOTEL
IN London, Cromwell, Littlejohn’s assistant, was busy at Ridgfield’s Hotel. His chief had told him to get to know as much as possible about Mr. Grossman and what he did there.
The doorkeeper was huge, like a medieval headsman or torturer, and he had a harsh, steely glare for all intruders. He gave Cromwell a look of contempt. Ridgfield’s was a very select hotel and their clients came year after year unto the third and fourth generation. A hushed, almost holy, atmosphere overhung the place, and elderly dowagers, bilious-looking colonial administrators, haughty fox-hunters of both sexes and a few of the milder scions of noble houses moved to and fro as though they owned the hotel, lock, stock and barrel.
The doorman thrust his greyhound’s muzzle close to Cromwell’s homely face.
“Sorry. Full up,” he said, as though daring him to try to enter.
“Nobody asked you,” replied Cromwell testily, and brandished his warrant card under the flunkey’s nose. The man turned pale.
“Better see the hall porter …”
In his haste to be rid of him, the doorman spun Cromwell round the revolving door and passed him on to a colleague resplendent in gold braid and with a gimlet eye which seemed capable of giving you a blood-test to establish your status in the social order.
He looked disdainfully at Cromwell until the doorkeeper’s whispered words suddenly changed his outlook.
“I’ll tell the manager …”
The hall porter made off on flat feet to a small pen illuminated from within by a green-shaded light.
“Here, wait a minute. You’ll do.”
In the hall a man with a head like a pike, including teeth, and goggling eyes, one covered by a monocle, giving the impression that he had carried away a part of his aquarium, was analysing hole by hole his round of golf on the previous day.
“Usually take five on number one, but the blighter took four. So I …”
Cromwell felt he could handle the hall porter far better than the manager. He wanted no battles of wits with the proud, would-be emperor who ran the place.
“Come in ’ere, then.”
The porter drew Cromwell into his quarters, which were little larger than a telephone kiosk and smelled strongly of surreptitious cigarettes and coke fumes, for it was over the flue.
You could still hear the pike bleating about his golf.
“On in three and a beauty of a putt waitin’ for me …”
“Now, look snappy. I’m supposed to be on duty.”
The porter seemed to be trying to do a hundred and one jobs at once. The window-cleaners were in and he kept watching them anxi
ously as though expecting them to fall at any minute. Judging from the alarm in his eyes, he might have been a spectator at a trapeze act in which the performers threatened at any moment to hurl hundreds of feet to their deaths.
“Do you know Mr. Grossman who used to come here from time to time?”
“Wot? The fellow that was murdered and stuffed in the oak box? Yes, knew ’im well. A regular client here.”
“How often did he come?”
“Oh, about six times a year, and stayed anythin’ from three days to a week at a time. Nice, gentlemanly chap. No trouble at all.”
“Had he any friends here?”
The porter stroked his chin with a heavy, grating noise. He was a bulky man, out of condition through hanging about, doing little. His deputy, a strapping lad, new to the job, kept running in and out for instructions, as jumpy and nervous as an animal newly captive in a cage.
“Well? Had he any friends here?”
The corner of the porter’s mouth lifted in a leer.
“Well … I never seen him with anybody. But strictly on the q.t., one of the chambermaids told me he had a lady friend. She used to stay ’ere as well Come a day or so before ’im, and left a day or so after.”
The man had relaxed into easy colloquial talk, free from many aspirates. Like a linguist who switches from one language to another as occasion demands. Before the haughty clients he spoke with heavy, laboured correctness.
“Go on with you!”
Cromwell knew the best way to get a full tale was to challenge the man’s statement.
“It’s true, I tell yer. I know the woman, although I didn’t associate the two of ’em till the maid mentioned it. She found dark hairs in the little chap’s bedroom. And ’im with hair like silver. I ask you …”
“What was the woman called?”
“Now I ain’t going to give anything away. Much as my job’s worth.”
A small procession passed the door. The head-waiter preparing for a meal. He had cruel, green eyes which looked right through the smaller mortals in his path. He was followed by a tall, willowy, swarthy underling with a small black moustache and greasy, undulating hair, wheeling a trolley of hors d’œuvres, each dish looking like a variation on the same theme, a species of seaweed.
The Case of the Seven Whistlers Page 6