“I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t that Mrs. Cleethorpes,” said Mrs. Featherfew, the secretary. “A most wilful and disobedient woman. Although I must say her collections are always near the top of the list.”
Littlejohn puffed his pipe and drank his beer calmly. It was good beer, the room was warm, and the instalment-like easy-chair at least comfortable. He could picture Mrs. Cleethorpes. In a hurry to be rid of her flags and get her box full. Brushing aside the secretary’s regulations as fussy, and getting on the job at once.
“So I called to see Mrs. Cleethorpes first.…”
Robinshaw was slow and ponderous, and consulted his notebook from time to time, just to make it appear official. He had asked his prospective father-in-law for a whisky and soda, because he could get beer anywhere. He grew in importance as the drink began to take hold of him. He also grew a little amorous and speeded up his narrative in the hope that Littlejohn would get it over and be off and leave him and Ethel for half an hour’s canoodling on their own in the front room before Gilbert said good-night.
“… She owned up right away.”
“What sort of a woman was she?”
“Eh?”
“What sort of a woman was she?”
“Little, and stout. Sort of always on the move. Bit uppish and defiant, like …”
Littlejohn could imagine her. He knew the sort. Bossy and knowing better than anybody else what they ought to do and how to do it. Probably brought up a large family and done well for them.…
“She said she’d almost sold all her flags on the night before the authorised day. And if we wanted to do anything about it, we could take her to court and she’d ask the magistrates what they thought they were doing wasting the time of honest people who worked for charity free of charge …”
“Where was her pitch?”
“Pitch? Oh yes … She’d the street just off the promenade. Water Avenue, it’s called. A busy street—one of the main thoroughfares to the sea front. The Palace is there, too. She sold a lot to people going to the pictures. There are two entrances to The Palace; one in the Avenue for the cheap seats and one on the Prom. for the better ones. She seems to have been busy between the two doors.”
“The Palace, eh?”
That was where Mrs. Doakes had been on the night of the crime. But wait …
“Where is the Bay Hotel?”
“Same place. Palace is at one corner of the Avenue; Bay Hotel’s at the other. Why?”
So Small might have bought a flag, as well. In fact, so many flags were sold that half the town might have bought them.
Robinshaw looked cunningly at Littlejohn.
“I asked Mrs. Cleethorpes if she remembered selling flags to Mr. Small and Mrs. Doakes.…”
A very self-satisfied smile. He turned it on Gillespie, too. A sort of congratulation on securing such a smart son-in-law-to-be.
“Good! What did she say?”
Robinshaw kept up the dramatic suspense by taking another swig of his whisky and soda. Then he gazed invitingly at his empty glass, but Gillespie didn’t bite. He looked ready to have another bilious attack.…
“She said she remembered selling one to Small as he went in the Bay Hotel. I asked her the time. She knew that, too. Quarter to eight. She remembered because the picture people had all gone in and there wasn’t much of a queue for the second house. So things being a bit slack, she almost followed Small into the hotel for a cup of coffee.”
“Good! What about the woman—Mrs. Doakes?”
“She doesn’t remember her at all. When Mrs. Cleethorpes got to Water Avenue after collecting her flags and box, she found long queues at both doors of the picture house and went along the length of them. She was so busy taking money and handing out flags she hadn’t time to look at everybody’s face. She didn’t remember seeing Mrs. Doakes, though she might easily have sold her a flag.…”
“H’m. All the same, that’s good work, Robinshaw. Very helpful.”
Gilbert leaned back in his chair and looked very pleased with himself. He wished Ethel had been there to hear Littlejohn praising him. He’d have something to tell her when he got her to himself. Stimulated by his success and the whisky inside him, he rose, walked solemnly to the cabinet and calmly helped himself to another liberal drink.
Gillespie, who was about to add his congratulations to those of Littlejohn, bit them back and glared at Robinshaw, who gave him a friendly nod. A credit to his father-in-law-to-be’s force! Eh?
“Any ideas on the subject?” asked Gillespie, pouring out another beer for Littlejohn.
“Not much.… It’s a question of motive, first, and so far we haven’t unearthed a thing. We’ve an idea of how Grossman was killed, but why, that’s another matter. We’ll just have to keep on digging away till we turn up something. Barbara Curwen seems to have been Grossman’s mistress.”
Robinshaw’s jaw fell, and he blushed furiously. Things like that weren’t talked about where he came from, except in whispers. The impact of the words bowled him over and he took a good drink to brace himself. Then he grinned.
“She’s an alibi of sorts, which I’m having checked.”
“H’m. The Chief Constable’ll be after my blood if we don’t find something out soon.…”
Gillespie looked very cast down. He took a good drink to drown his sorrow.
Littlejohn looked at his watch. Eight-thirty.
“I think, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting along. I want a word with the doorkeeper of The Palace before he goes.”
Ethel and Mrs. Gillespie had entered. The elder woman looked at the cocktail cabinet and then at the beers of Littlejohn and her husband.
“Won’t you have a better drink than that?” she said, indicating red, green, amber and colourless fluids.
“No thanks. I’m just off, Mrs. Gillespie. I’ve still some work to do.…”
“Not going already?”
Ethel was exchanging secret glances with her lover, who returned them with alcoholic fervour.
Young Gillespie arrived with an autograph album and begged Littlejohn’s signature, greatly to the disgust of his father, who had never been asked for his.
Gillespie and his wife saw the Inspector off. Young Gillespie seemed disposed to stay behind, but Robinshaw propelled him along with the rest and then shut the door of the front room behind him.
As he passed the window, Littlejohn gave a final glance into the room. Robinshaw was standing on the rug, one arm firmly round his girl, the other drawing figures in the air as he described his brilliant feats of detection that day. Ethel’s eyes were fixed on his round, red face in adoration.
Littlejohn smiled.
Well, well. If she matured into someone like her mother, no harm would be done. Robinshaw wouldn’t become a second Gillespie. He’d a hide like a rhinoceros!
Littlejohn suddenly remembered that he hadn’t seen Gillespie’s pigeons, which he’d heard clucking and cooing as he ate his tea.
Probably Mrs. Gillespie had forbidden her husband from taking up their visitor’s time with such trivialities. Anyway, Gillespie hadn’t mentioned it.…
11
ALIBI AT THE PALACE
SO Mrs. Doakes had been at the pictures when the murder occurred. It seemed a very thin alibi and Littlejohn determined to find out just how much water it would hold.
He strolled along the promenade from Gillespie’s house to The Palace.
It was a lovely, warm evening. The tide was in; the promenade was full of holidaymakers enjoying the air. It quite gave Littlejohn the holiday feeling. He slackened his speed, smoked his pipe and wished he hadn’t to go to the picture-house at all.
A ’plane flew overhead, two speedboats skimmed across the water of the bay, leaving a trail of white behind them, and there was a film unit shooting a crowd scene on the promenade. One of the actors was surrounded by an eager herd of autograph-hunters.
A little, busy woman approached Littlejohn and, pointing at the mob round the c
ameras, confidentially and proudly informed him that Leslie Trumble was there and that he was a very nice boy.
“Leslie Trumble?”
Littlejohn was quite at a loss.
“Yes. Don’t you know Leslie Trumble? The film star …”
She looked in disgust at Littlejohn’s blank expression and walked away without another word, marvelling at the abyss of his ignorance.
The evangelist on the beach was hard at it. Accompanying them on a portable organ, he led his congregation, a vast one, in a hymn, which swept the promenade from end to end.
Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood,
Stand dressed in living green,
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.
The film producer, who was a Jew himself, was tearing his hair and sending an underling to stem the flood of fervour and make everything O.K. for Sound. Money no object! The producer fished in the pocket of his flannel bags and gave his understrapper a five-pound note to give the evangelist to hold up Jordan for ten minutes.…
You could hardly get near The Palace. Leslie Trumble was going to make a personal appearance when he’d finished on location. The crowd of women looked ready to tear him in a hundred pieces when he arrived.…
Littlejohn had consulted the timetable of trains between Fetling and Stainford Junction. It was possible to sneak out of the pictures, catch the 7.45 to Stainford from Fetling, leave the train at 8.15 at Stainford and get the 8.31 back to Fetling.
Quick work, but enabling whoever did it to return to the cinema in time to make an exit past the doorkeeper with others leaving the place.
But, if Mrs. Doakes had done it, how had she got in the cinema again without being seen? As a rule, the exits of picture-houses are kept fastened, and whilst there is a safety-bar to make egress easy, it locks automatically as the door closes. She couldn’t have got out and back unless someone inside had let her in when she returned.
The doorkeeper was a pompous little fellow, whose pride at the approaching visit of Leslie Trumble almost overcame him. He was bossing about among the people in the queues outside.
“House Full; No Seats …” he kept shouting and strutting from end to end of the ragged lines of hopeful faces. Those in the queues were evidently anticipating some miracle or other whereby the audience inside would suddenly decide to turn out and leave them seats from which to enjoy Trumble.
The doorman’s dignity was destroyed by the fact that his uniform was two sizes too large for him. His predecessor had been broader in the chest and narrower in the paunch and a dearth of clothing coupons had prevented the newcomer from getting a fresh rig-out.
“Was you wanting somethin’? No seats; house full. Go to the end of the queue if you want to stop …”
“A word with you,” said Littlejohn.
The attendant hitched his cuffs to hide their surplus length.
“No use tryin’ to square me. Not a seat in the ’ouse …”
“Police!” said Littlejohn.
“One of you’s no good to look arter Mister Trumble when he comes. You’ll need dozens. This lot’ll tear ’is clothes off him, an’ no mistake.”
He eyed the predatory line of women like the keeper of a tiger-house at the zoo. They had laughed at him and his uniform and he was itching to get even with them.
“.… proper wild they are. I wouldn’t be Mister Trumble …”
“Damn Trumble,” said Littlejohn, and the attendant and those near recoiled in horror as though he had blasphemed in a holy place. Some of the more fanatical women looked ready to attack him.
“Come inside. This is a private matter.”
The little man, endeavouring to inflate himself to fit his uniform, led Littlejohn into the porch by the pay-boxes and indicated that he was ready to listen to anything reasonable.
Yes. He had seen Mrs. Doakes come in and go out on the night of the murder. He knew her quite well. In fact, before he took on this job, he’d driven a carrier’s cart and did quite a few jobs for The Seven Whistlers, shifting stuff about and such-like.
“Was there anybody with her?”
“No, she was by herself. Somethin’ fresh, that.…”
“What do you mean?”
“Often as not, she ’ad a bloke with her. Husband’s away at sea and she doesn’t mind a bit o’ congenial company now and then.… See what I mean?”
His upper lip shot back across his teeth like a trapdoor opening. It was supposed to be a knowing smile.
“Could she have got out at one of the exits and then come in again?”
“No. Not likely. You can get out, but you carn’t come back again. Doors close and lock autermatic. If they didn’t everybody’d be able to dodge in the place and get a free show.…”
He looked contemptuously at Littlejohn for being so innocent.
“Were you at the door all the time?”
“Yes. Except just before the show finished, I was at the door and in the vestibule. Nobody could ’ave come in or gone out without me seein’ ’em.”
“What about the other door?”
“That? There’s no attendant like me there. That’s the cheap seats.…”
He said it like a real snob.
“Couldn’t she have come in that way a second time?”
The doorman was getting out of patience at the detective’s lack of wits.
“Course not. Not unless she climbed over the balcony, let herself down one o’ the pillars to get out, or shinned up one to get in.…”
“You mean the balcony and stalls are entirely cut off, except by access from the main door.”
“That’s right. The door to the cheap seats leads to the cheap seats and nowhere else.”
“Now listen. Suppose I go in the cheap seats, can I get to the balcony without coming back into this vestibule?”
“No. The stalls and balcony’s connected by steps from the front door only. And, as I said, nobody could come or go without me seein’ ’em.…”
“Good.”
The doorkeeper looked relieved.
Outside, there was a full-throated roar and the queue began to scuffle in an effort to get in the house again.
The attendant rushed out and could be seen flailing his long-sleeves among a crowd of hats and handbags. Then he returned, hot and dishevelled.
False alarm!
“They’ll ’ave to call out the soldiers to quieten that lot,” he said. “When Trumble does come they’ll be a riot …”
“Never mind Trumble. Let them lynch him if they want. How many houses do you have here?”
“Continuous, except Saturday. Starts six o’clock weekdays and goes on continuous till half-ten. Saturdays, two complete ’ouses, six-thirty and h’eight-forty.”
“So you can come in and go out when you like?”
“Yep!”
“Why do people queue, then?”
What a question! The doorkeeper almost spat in disgust.
“They’s always a queue starts about eight o’clock for the second showin’ o’ the feature film. When the first round’s over a lot o’ people leave and they’s empty seats.… See?”
Littlejohn knew it all. He’d had some. Plenty. But he just wanted to check the details.
“You said just now you saw everybody coming and going except just before the show finished. What did you mean?”
“Well, it’s this way. I’ve got to take in the glass cases with the ‘stills’ in ’em. You know, these things, photos of bits of the pictures …”
He pointed with his sleeves, which covered his entire hand, to three glass cases hanging on the outer wall near the main door.
“… We used ter leave them out all night, but they’s a lot o’ sailors billeted in town now and they get to throwin’ beer bottles at the pictures when they’re drunk at night. So, the boss ’ad the cases made to take off. I carries them in to the boss’s office every night now, just before the show ends.”
“Where is the manage
r’s room?”
The doorman pointed his sleeve to a half-open door labelled “Manager. Private.” Inside, you could see autographed facsimile photographs of film-stars all over the walls.
“Where’s the ladies’ room?”
“There …”
Another door just round the corner from the main entrance.
Anybody knowing the doorkeeper’s nightly routine could wait until he was busy with his cases and sneak into the ladies’ room. Then, quietly creep out and mix with the crowds when the show was over, passing and bidding goodnight to the man in the ill-fitting uniform.
So much for the alibi.
But what about motive? That still eluded them.
Suddenly, a roar from inside the picture-house announced that something had happened. The doorman smiled to himself.
“What’s that?”
“Leslie Trumble. They’ve let him in by one of the exits. Part o’ the plan, see?”
Littlejohn smiled at life’s ironies.
News had reached the waiting crowd outside. They were rioting. A shouting stream of women rushed the entrances, poured into the vestibule, and entered the auditorium like a great flood. They bore Littlejohn and the attendant along like flotsam. Tightly wedged among them, unable to move arms or legs, Littlejohn floated helplessly along. On the stage appeared a dark man with wavy hair, dressed in flannels and a leather golfing jacket. A wild shout of exultation with a trace of a sob in it rose from the human mass packed in the hall.
Littlejohn got jammed against one of the exits. Frenziedly he tussled with the bar, and suddenly the door opened. He found himself in the open air. So tightly packed had the audience been, that the opening of the exit ejected about twenty women with Littlejohn, like soda water leaving a syphon under pressure. The door closed, and those left outside, slowly recovering from their intoxication, realised what had happened and hared off to try and get in again by hook or crook. Through the jerry-built walls of the picture-house you could still hear the roaring of the women inside. At any time they might burst the place assunder!
The Case of the Seven Whistlers Page 9