The Case of the Seven Whistlers

by George Bellairs

  When he’d calmed down, Littlejohn told Gillespie about the flag found with Grossman’s body.

  “Children’s Home, eh? H’m. I’ll have a word with Miss Sharpes, the secretary, about it. She’ll know who was selling them. Maybe, we could find out where, between The Seven Whistlers and the station, or even Hartsbury, that flag was sold.”

  “Bit of a job. When was the flag-day?”

  Gillespie rang the bell at his elbow.

  “Groves! Just look up the file and find out when the Children’s Home flag-day was.”

  “Last Tuesday, sir.”

  “I said look it up! Want it in black and white.”

  Groves made a crestfallen exit and returned with written confirmation of his statement.

  “Last Tuesday,” said Gillespie with a measure of pride, as though he’d found it all out himself.

  “But Grossman was killed on Monday. How came the flag to be there? Were they selling them the day before?”

  “Certainly not! We give permission for flag-days here and one day doesn’t mean two. Now, that’s very interesting. I’d like to know who had the nerve to start selling flags the day before.”

  It might not have been a murder case at all!

  “That’s what we ought to find out from your Miss Sharpes, Gillespie.”

  “You bet we will!” replied Gillespie with relish.

  “Then I’ll leave you to it,” said Littlejohn, and made off.

  “Groves! Groves!! Send in Robinshaw,” yelled Gillespie.

  But Groves was in the street arguing with a wandering minstrel who was defending his rights. He was playing gramophone records on a portable instrument and, sitting on the pavement, was a small, sad-looking dog clad in a coat with mother-of-pearl buttons and with an alms-cup tied round its neck.

  Am I wasting my time,

  By thinking you’re mine …

  Barbara Curwen made a gesture of impatience when Littlejohn again called at her house. She was distant and haughty, but her front soon caved-in when the Inspector came straight to the point.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a friend of Mr. Grossman, Miss Curwen?” he asked.

  All the blood drained from her face, throwing into vivid relief the scarlet gash of her lips.

  “What do you mean?”

  But her expression had already answered Littlejohn’s question.

  “You were frequently seen with Mr. Grossman at Ridgfield’s Hotel in London, Miss Curwen.”

  “I have nothing to say,”

  “Very well. In that case you’ll be called at the adjourned inquest to answer under oath. Good day.”

  Littlejohn made for the door.

  In the passage Messrs. Hoar were still moving things about. This time it was a harmonium.

  “Stop!!”

  Barbara Curwen decided to talk. Hesitant, nervous, her self-control stretched to breaking-point, she told Littlejohn of her friendship with Grossman. Of course, she didn’t admit to being his mistress. She skirted that point and Littlejohn did not press it at the time. Both had stayed at Ridgfield’s and, coming from the same town, had naturally struck up a friendship. They had gone to shows together—and so on.

  “And were you still on good terms with Mr. Grossman when he died?”

  Miss Curwen’s eyes flickered.

  “Yes.”

  Littlejohn didn’t believe her.

  “Where were you when he was killed, Miss Curwen?”

  “In London …”

  “Ridgfield’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing between eight and nine on the night of the crime?”

  She looked astonished.

  “Surely … I was at the theatre.”

  “Which, please?”

  “The Embankment.”

  “What did you see?”

  “‘ I’ve Just Killed Stracey.’”

  That was right. Littlejohn had taken Letty to see the show on his birthday. He liked to see a good crime play by way of relaxation.

  “Anybody with you or did anyone see you there?”

  “No, I went alone. But the porter at the hotel saw me come in about eleven. I couldn’t possibly have got back to Fetling, killed Mr. Grossman, and then returned to Ridgfield’s in the time, if that’s what you’re getting at, Inspector. I think you’re being a little absurd.”

  “That’s for me to judge. And now, about the box. You’re sure there was only one key?”

  Her expression gave her away again!

  “So there were two keys, after all. Why didn’t you tell me the truth when I called before, Miss Curwen? You’ve wasted a lot of my time.”

  She was like a schoolgirl caught in a guilty act. She flushed scarlet and then, pulling herself together, met Littlejohn’s calm look with defiance.

  “If you want to know, I had a key made for myself. My father was extremely mean with housekeeping money and my allowance. He kept cash in the box … Once, when he left the key in by mistake, I took it, had impressions made and had a new key cut for myself, so that in emergencies I could get money. I never told anyone … I was too ashamed …”

  “And what happened to the key after you sold the box?”

  “I gave it to Mr. Grossman and asked him to say nothing about it. I didn’t want the servants to know … Father had complained in his lifetime about missing money and I’d always told him not to be silly, there was only one key …”

  “Funny you took all the trouble to give the second key to Mr. Grossman when you could have thrown it away.”

  “I happened to meet him and the box was mentioned. I’d given him my key before I’d quite realised the implications.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me that when I called before?”

  “I thought you’d question me and suspect that I’d had a hand in the murder and that my relations with Mr. Grossman would all come out and cause a scandal. I didn’t kill him … I swear I didn’t …”

  She looked on the verge of collapse.

  “What about these packing cases, madam? We’ve got to finish by late afternoon, you see, as you’ve to give up the key to-day …”

  It was Father Christmas Hoar anxious to be getting on with the job and finished before the pubs opened. He relieved the situation, and Littlejohn departed, leaving him in possession.

  10

  THE SEVEN WHISTLERS AGAIN

  A PRETTY kettle of fish! Two keys now! Well, there wasn’t a key in Grossman’s pocket or possessions, which the police had overhauled with great vigour and thoroughness.

  So somebody had taken one key.

  After telephoning to Cromwell to see the porter at Ridgfields again and check Barbara Curwen’s alibi, such as it was, Littlejohn returned to the antique shop.

  Before he left, however, Gillespie dropped a bombshell!

  “My wife says she’d like to meet you,” he said, like one passing on orders from a superior officer. “So, if you care to come round to tea this afternoon … We might talk things over over a pipe after …”

  A note of apology crept into Gillespie’s tones.

  “It’ll be a pleasure,” said Littlejohn. “You can show me your pigeons, too …”

  Gillespie’s expression changed with great suddenness. It was as though somebody had given him a powerful dose of medicine and washed the bile from his system.

  “Yes … Yes … By jove! And, by the way, I’ve put Robinshaw on hunting round and about who sold flags a day before the event. He’ll probably be along with his report in the course of the evening. He’s engaged to my daughter …”

  Well, well. So Gillespie had a daughter … And loved by a policeman, too. Littlejohn found himself half hoping, for Robinshaw’s sake, that she took after her mother. He changed his mind later. Meanwhile he arranged to call at the police station in time to be led to tea by Gillespie and made his way to The Seven Whistlers again.

  Mrs. Doakes was nowhere to be seen. Small, however, was in the shop arguing about the price of a Welsh dresse
r with a large, masculine woman who seemed to be trying to beat him down by sheer avoirdupois. Unsuccessful, she stamped out, rattling all the glass and china and slamming the door.

  “Whew …! That’s Mrs. Gillespie … A proper tartar.”

  Littlejohn felt his heart sink.

  “What is it now?”

  Small looked anything but pleased, and flopping down in a chair, took out a soft packet of small cigarettes and inserted one in his huge and ugly face. His eyes drew together in a fearful squint as he applied a match and made him more forbidding than ever.

  “Did you know there were two keys to Curwen’s box, Mr. Small?”

  The fat man paused, holding the lighted match half-way back from his mouth, extinguished it by shaking it in the air and then flung it on the floor.

  “No. There weren’t two …”

  “Yes, there were.”

  “Who told yen …?”

  He drew in a huge gulp of smoke, coughed, cleared his throat and spat revoltingly in the fire.

  “Miss Curwen. Was there a key in the lock when you got it here?”

  “I told yer, I washed my hands of it when I heard what Grossman had paid for it. I don’t know a thing about it …”

  “Who packed it for the train?”

  “My niece, Mrs. Doakes …”

  “Is she in?”

  “No. She’s gone to a sale up-town.”

  “She stitched up the canvas covering in which it was sent to Hartsbury, as well?”

  “Yes. She always does that sort of job. Why?”

  “I’ll call again. I’d like another word with her.”

  “Sale won’t be over till tea-time …”

  Tea time! Littlejohn thought with a sense of foreboding of tea with the formidable Mrs. Gillespie and her liverish husband.

  “I’ll call again …”

  They sat down to high-tea at the Gillespie’s at half-past six. There were the local Superintendent, his wife, their daughter Ethel, young Gillespie, just finishing at the grammar school and with pimples all over his face, and Littlejolin. There was also a vacant place, laid and ready for the absent Robinshaw.

  They were eating fresh salmon.

  “Difficult to get these days … Help yourself, Inspector Littlejohn,” boomed Mrs. Gillespie. “Seven and sixpence a pound!”

  That was the trouble with Mrs. Gillespie. She had come into money and they weren’t dependent on the Superintendent’s earnings. She liked that to be known.

  Gillespie looked at the salmon as though he wished it would choke him and put him out of his misery. Ethel blushed and glanced sideways and reproachfully at her enormous mother, and young Gillespie didn’t seem to hear, for he was all eyes for Littlejohn, and Scotland Yard was a magic word to his ears.

  Mrs. Gillespie finished serving the tea, lifted her bosom on the table and started to tuck in. She had a long, heavy face, three chins, a tapering, mischievous nose and small, brown busy eyes. As she ministered to her brood the many rings flashed on her fingers.

  “Show the Inspector the watch your grandad gave you when you passed Matric, Denzil,” she said, smacking her lips over the salmon and cucumber. “Cost forty pounds … His grandad—my father—was that pleased with Denzil coming through.”

  Denzil didn’t seem to hear. He kept smiling at Littlejohn and his pimples shone with eager reverence.

  “Denzil!!”

  The poor lad produced the watch without much enthusiasm. It was a large hunter with a ponderous albert attached. Denzil had asked for a wrist-watch, like the rest of them wore. But no, Grandad Partington had no room for half measures. When he bought a watch, he bought a watch. Chain and all! Denzil concealed the chain in his pocket instead of displaying it across his waistcoat, and, hence, moved about with a large protuberance like a malignant growth across his abdomen.

  “Very nice,” said Littlejohn. “Thanks, Denzil.”

  It was nice to be called Denzil by a Scotland Yard detective. Something to tell the chaps to-morrow. Denzil glowed all over. He never saw much distinction in his own father. The terror of malefactors in Fetling was very quiet at home. So far, he’d hardly spoken a word.

  “Gilbert’s late!”

  Mrs. Gillespie looked at the plate in front of the vacant chair as though about to demolish poor Robinshaw’s tea as well as her own if he didn’t turn-up soon.

  “Duty comes first,” ventured Gillespie. “He’s a fair bit to do to-day.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have invited him to his tea then if he can’t be here in time.…”

  “Mother!!” said Ethel.

  Littlejohn wondered who Ethel took after. She certainly didn’t strongly resemble either parent, yet, but there was a framed photograph on the wall of what looked like a deflated Mrs. Gillespie at about twenty-four or five which gave Littlejohn the thought that Robinshaw was in for a similar fate to that of his superior officer in, say, twenty years’ time. As Littlejohn cautiously studied Ethel over his salmon and greens, he marvelled at nature and natural selection. You could see Mr. and Mrs. Gillespie subtly blended in that face. No distinct likeness, but as though nature had vigorously shaken up the bottle to make an equal mixture without displaying the individual ingredients.

  And as for natural selection … He wondered what Robinshaw saw.…

  Heavy feet plodded up the front garden path, paused, shuffled on the doorstep as the newcomer vigorously wiped his soles, and then the bell rang. Ethel excused herself, leapt up like a wild animal after its prey, they could hear her bossing Robinshaw about in the lobby, and then she led him in like an ox to slaughter.

  Robinshaw was a huge ox. Round, red face; round, red hands; round, red nose; and a round, red head. His body was well padded and round, too, and probably under his clothes was red as well from embarrassment, for he was blushing as he entered. He was overcome when he saw Littlejohn. This was the last straw! He almost kowtowed with awe.

  “Sit down and help yourself, Gilbert,” said Mrs. Gillespie, passing the bread and butter to her future son-in-law before he had properly seated himself. “Fresh salmon, Gilbert.…”

  Gilbert smiled back sheepishly at her. Littlejohn got the impression that Gilbert was a great favourite with Mrs. Gillespie, for she began to ladle extra salmon and cucumber on his plate before he had started, just to show he was specially favoured.

  “Well?” asked Gillespie, portentously. “Any luck with the flag-day?”

  “Yes,” said Robinshaw, through a mouthful of food. In fact his mouth was overflowing with food, as though he might be trying to convey to his hostess that it was so good that he couldn’t get it down fast enough. “Yes.…”

  “Wait till after. No business over meals.”

  Mrs. Gillespie put her foot down and there was another awkward silence.

  Robinshaw ogled Ethel. In spite of what you might think when you saw Mrs. Gillespie mothering him, Gilbert had really fallen in love at first sight with Ethel. Why, nature and her methods of selection alone could say.

  It had been quite a romance. Ethel was secretary to the managing director of a large stores and had a nice and peaceful job with a very considerate boss. Then somebody had started, every morning at ten, ringing her up on the telephone, saying: “Miss Gillespie? I love you, Miss Gillespie,” and hanging up. The thing had got on her nerves. Not only because of the monotony of it, day in and day out at the same time, but it is appalling to have a lover on your track and not know who it is.

  So, at her wits’ end, Ethel had spoken to father, who had put a detective on the job. And that detective was Gilbert Robinshaw. They had never been able to trace the phantom lover, who, apparently, hearing that the local sleuths were after him, had controlled his passion and sheered off. But it brought Gilbert and Ethel into contact and cooked Robinshaw’s matrimonial goose for him. Father, spurred on by mother, had asked Robinshaw his intentions before he’d even kissed the girl!

  Whenever Gilbert Robinshaw passed a telephone kiosk, there came to him an overpowering d
esire to enter it, cover the mouthpiece with his handkerchief to muffle his voice, dial Fetling 4321: “Hankey’s Stores? That you, Miss Gillespie? I love you.…” Then he would burst into a cold sweat.

  “Shall we go into the front room while the women clear away?”

  Gillespie rose with a sigh.

  Robinshaw was meticulously clearing his plate of the last of some trifle. Bit by bit with a spoon, like a cat licking up the last drop.

  “There’s a fire in the lounge.”

  Gillespie would keep calling the lounge “the front room” and his wife objected to it. Since she came into Uncle Joe’s money, made out of mineral waters, she’d set about social climbing. She hadn’t met with phenomenal success and put it down to Gillespie’s lack of co-operation.

  The front room was full of new furniture, with a thick carpet on the floor. Vaguely, Littlejohn thought of hire-purchase. It was the sort of stuff you paid for by instalments. Had Mrs. Gillespie been able to read his thoughts, he’d have been shown the door.…

  “Have a drink?”

  Gillespie opened an enormous cocktail cabinet full of every kind of available drink, with a large display of glasses, bottles and the usual tackle for mixing and taking alcohol. It was Mrs. Gillespie’s present to him last Christmas. He looked sheepish as he handled it, like a humble man who’s been given a luxury car he can’t get comfortable in or keep up.

  “I’ll have a bottle of beer, if I may.…”

  Gillespie’s face lit up. He was relieved and went off into the interior of the house for the beer. Outside, you could hear Mrs. Gillespie grumbling at him in stage whispers for not pressing more arrogant drinks on their distinguished guest.

  Robinshaw had visited the secretary of the flag fund and had caused a bit of commotion, for she knew of Gillespie’s strictness about flag-day regulations and saw herself hauled before the magistrates for misdemeanour. She herself had not touted in the street, of course. Too busy for that. Counting the money and telling others what to do. She’d given emphatic instructions that the sellers must not start until the authorised morning. Who had disobeyed? Breathing fire and fury, she had shown Robinshaw the list of saleswomen. There were thirty-four of them! Poor Gilbert had almost fainted at the thought of so much tramping up and down the town.