On the other hand, those large withdrawals. Was somebody else carrying on counter-blackmail against Grossman and had they quarrelled?
It seemed more than likely that the money had been turned over in stolen property deals.
Grossman withdraws a large sum to pay for stolen goods. Right. That was borne out by the bank account. Then, whilst pretending to attend antique sales, he calls on his agent in London to get rid of the stolen stuff through the usual channels. He takes the goods with him. Jewellery, perhaps. Someone knows he has it and attacks him on the train and takes it. The criminal is disturbed. Maybe by the guard. Maybe anybody. So hides Grossman in the chest in the van nearby.…
But who knew that the chest was there?
The station and train staff, the carriers, Small, Mrs. Doakes. Yes, even the murderer who had followed Grossman to the train. It still might be anybody!
But who was likely to know that Grossman was carrying the stuff? Small? Mrs. Doakes? They said they knew nothing of his other activities. Small had an alibi. Mrs. Doakes had her picture-house tale, and that only.
On the other hand, the original thief who’d sold the jewels, or whatever they might be, may have come along to get them beck again.
Littlejohn drank up his tea and knocked out his pipe. As far away as ever!
They’d better start by checking up the local robberies. That would be something else for Gillespie’s men. Littlejohn returned to the police station.
Gillespie was absent. It was court day and the Superintendent was prosecuting in certain cases before the magistrates. Littlejohn wrote a brief note asking him to get out particulars of recent local robberies, say over twelve months. That ought to cover everything.
“Had many big robberies around this neighbourhood of late?’ asked Littlejohn of the sergeant-in-charge as he made his way out.
“Nothin’ to speak of, sir,” replied the man. “Bits o’ petty pilferin’ and such, but not what you might call any cause celebry, as you might say.…”
He had seen it in a book. Cause célèbre, in connection with the Dreyfus Case, and he wanted to work it off on someone after looking it up in his daughter’s French dictionary.
“Oh,” said Littlejohn, and made off.
13
THE APPEARANCE OF BIRDIE JAMESON
LITTLEJOHN met Gillespie in the street. He was in plain clothes, smoking a large curved pipe, and he looked very cheerful. In the course of conversation, he disclosed to Littlejohn that he was going to live a bachelor existence for the next fortnight. Robinshaw and his daughter were going away to a distant seaside resort for their annual holiday and Mrs. Gillespie had expressed the opinion that it wasn’t right for them to go without a chaperone and might cause local tongues to wag. Miss Gillespie was furious and talked of calling the whole thing off. Robinshaw didn’t seem to mind and he and his future mother-in-law had finally persuaded the girl to fall in with the plan. Gillespie was delighted.
“I’ll bet they’ve a job to persuade ma not to go with ’em on their honeymoon,” he said, puffing at his pipe with great relish.
Littlejohn realised that, left to himself, Gillespie might develop a mordant sense of humour.
“But that’s not what I want you about, Littlejohn. I hear you were asking yesterday about local robberies. That so?”
“Yes.”
“Why, might I ask?”
“Well, I’m beginning to think that Grossman was carrying on some other business that might have given a motive for the murder. It might have been blackmail. Or, he might have been a fence. In the latter event, I think perhaps local robberies, if any, might be of interest. The loot might have found its way to Grossman. What do you think?”
“Very probably. There have been one or two cases locally over the past twelve months, but the really big job was that at Coatcliffe Hall, Lord Trotwoode’s place. Somebody got in there on the night of the hunt ball about four months ago, and stole Lady Trotwoode’s diamond necklace, taken from the bank for the occasion.”
“Did they, by gad!”
“Yes. And we got the fellow who did it only last week.”
“Well, well.”
“Yes. A pure stroke of luck. A well-known local bad-lot. Chap of the name of Clifford Jameson, better known as Birdie Jameson because he used to imitate bird-calls on the local halls. But he found a better way of making money. Temporarily, of course, until we laid our hands on him. He turned to cat-burgling and was damn good at it. We got him on one or two counts and he did a stretch or two as a result. We thought he’d reformed. And then the Coat-cliff job—right up his street and true to pattern.…”
“How?”
“Jewellery left on her ladyship’s dressing-table and whilst she was out of the room—on the first floor it was—somebody lifted them. Somebody who knew the event was coming off and guessed she’d be decking herself out in her traditional finery. Somebody who knew the Hall, too, where her room was, and where to wait till the coast was clear. It was Birdie right enough.”
“And why were you so long getting him? Did he run away far?”
“You might well ask. You’ll laugh when I tell you. It was obviously Birdie’s work and he’d been seen in the locality, but after the robbery he just vanished into thin air. Not a sign of him anywhere. All the police of the land on the look-out, but never a sign.”
“Well?”
“Know where he was all the time?”
“Suppose you tell me.…”
Gillespie puffed his pipe with great relish and cordially returned the salute of a passing constable by raising his hat to him.
“He was found in the Army of Occupation in the Rhineland. Can you beat it?”
“What was he doing there?”
“He’d been called-up from another town and after the war found himself in Germany—Osnabrück, I think the place was. So, none of his old buddies here knew anything about him. Then he came home on leave, went to his old digs elsewhere first, togged up in his civvies, and arrived here to look up some pals. Whilst he was in Fetling he heard about the hunt ball and, being a local lad, knew her ladyship would have on the famous diamonds. He owned up to it all when he saw his goose was cooked. And do you know why he says he did the job? Because he was bored and wanted a bit of excitement!”
“I can quite understand him—quite. I guess the artist was craving for a change from guarding the Huns. He’d disposed of the loot, I guess.”
“Yes. So he said. Held on to them for a bit and then got rid of them.”
“And I don’t suppose he told you where.”
“Not on your life … He might need the fence again. Besides, these fellows have a way of getting their own back on those who betray them.”
Littlejohn wished he’d brought a light suit. The sun was shining fiercely. Gillespie was in a flannel rig-out with a flower in his button-hole and all the passers-by were in holiday wear. The atmosphere of the place took hold of you.…
It would brighten things up if he saw Mr. Birdie Jameson.
“How did you manage to get hold of Jameson?”
“Quite by accident. We always try the Forces, of course, when we’re on the hunt for a man. I don’t need to tell you that.”
“No, you dont.”
“But Jameson had registered and joined-up as Walter instead of Clifford—reasons of his own, I guess. Very understandable ones.… Well, one of our constables, a chap called Fiddler, has a son in the place where Birdie was billeted and he happened to come across him by accident. Knowing his father had, one time and another, been interested in running Birdie in, he just jocularly mentioned it in a letter home. Of course, that did it. We had Birdie here by return of post, as you might say. Hu-hu-hu …”
Gillespie actually laughed. It was a hoarse, braying sound, and, passing through his pipe, converted it into a miniature volcano and covered his nice grey suit and red carnation with hot ash.
“And Birdie owned up to the job?”
“Yes,” said Gillespie, earnestly dust
ing himself down and anxiously making sure that he hadn’t set fire to his suit, for had he done so, his wife would have made life not worth living for him for weeks after discovering it. “You see, he was spotted about the place at the time of the robbery and the records at Osnabrück tallied with his leave time.…”
“Was he here when Grossman was killed, though?”
“Definitely not. You thinkin’ he might have quarrelled with the little man about the proceeds. No. You can put that out of your head. Practically the whole army of occupation can swear that Birdie was in Germany at the time of the crime. You see, he was imitating birds at a Forces concert.…”
“Couldn’t have had a better alibi, could he?”
“He could not.”
“Well, I’d like to see this Birdie. Maybe he’s the very thing we want to help us in this case that doesn’t yield a clue or the trace of a scent.”
“You shall see him at once. He comes before the magistrates this afternoon. They’ll send him to the assizes, of course. But he’s been brought in this morning from the county jail and is now our guest. Hu-hu-hu …”
He removed his pipe this time and laughed heartily. The prospects of liberty from his wife’s ceaseless domination were making a new and merry man of Gillespie!
Birdie Jameson was the very antithesis of a cat burglar. He was small, tubby and cheerful. He had a bald head, too, which tapered off to a point at the top. None of the outer qualifications of a robber accustomed to shinning up drainpipes or climbing over roofs, yet a local legend for his ingenuity in finding his way to valuables up, over and through every form of obstacle.
Jameson knew of Littlejohn by reputation. He said so and greeted him like an old friend, a member of an affiliated society.
“Heard o’ you,” he said. “Ran-in my pal, Gus Oates. Remember Gus, Inspector? Kep’ a pub at Swiss Cottage an’ got too friendly with the Bert Clooes gang. Remember ’im?”
“Come to think of it, I do, Birdie. But that’s not what I’m here for.…”
“I wasn’t sayin’ you was, Inspector. But should old acquaintance be forgot? What you after?”
Birdie smiled an ingratiating smile, like a shopwalker anxious to direct a client to the right counter. His mouth was large and he had queer, long, triangular teeth, with the apexes fitting in his gums. His merry, clean-shaven, round face radiated goodwill as though he wasn’t going before the bench but on a long holiday. Come to think of it, he was, wasn’t he? Perhaps the prospect pleased him.…
“I hear you relieved Lady Trotwoode of her diamonds some time ago, Birdie.”
“Who told yer that? I come before the beak to-day and I ain’t said I’m pleading guilty.…”
“You’ll be found guilty, I guess, whether you plead it or not.”
“Gawd! Talk o’ English justice.…”
“According to your statement, when they got you, you said ‘It’s a fair cop!’ That true?”
Birdie burst into roars of laughter. His whole body vibrated like a jelly. Arms and legs as well.
“What I like about you, Inspector, if you’ll pardon me sayin’ it, is your ’umour. Allus admired among the fraternity for yore ’umour. Whenever there’s a perfessional gathering o’ me and me likes, we allus wish one another, like wishin’ each other good-luck, like, we allus wish each other the ’ope that if they are pinched, Inspector Littlejohn’ll do the pinchin’. Got a sense o’ ’umour. Pinch yer wiv a ’umorous sally, as you might say.”
“Come off it, Birdie. No more putting-off. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Help me and I’ll do my best for you.”
“And what might that be? Goin’ to say to the beaks ‘Don’t send pore ole Birdie to prison—’e’s a pal o’ mine’? Go on!”
“No. But you know the police can be useful, and if you’ll give me some information I’ll see you don’t suffer for it. I can’t say more than that.”
“Well; what is it?”
“Grossman. You know he was murdered a day or two ago?”
Birdie didn’t laugh this time. He grew aggressive. He needed to raise himself on his tiptoes even to reach Littlejohn’s chin, but he did it and thrust his large mouth and triangular teeth savagely in the direction of Littlejohn’s soft collar as though about to bite his throat.
“Yuss, I know. An’ you carn’t pin it on me. I got me alibi, see? An’ do what you like, you can’t break it. So you needn’t waste any time …”
“Getting very heated about nothing, Birdie, aren’t you?”
“Well, I thought better of you than that. Tryin’ to …”
“Nothing of the kind. But the way you’re carrying on tells me who the fence was to whom you sold those stones.”
“I ain’t sayin’ nuffin’, see?”
“But the man’s dead. He’s past harming you, if you’ve any fears on that score. He’ll do no more business with you or you with him. He’s dead and cremated now.”
“I don’t care if he’s double dead an’ double cremated—or triple cremated—I’m sayin’ nuffin. Nix.”
“So he had a partner, had he? Who?”
Birdie Jameson’s lips closed in a tight line. His little eyes twinkled defiantly and then he relaxed and started to laugh again. A real convulsion of mirth.
“I was jest larfin’ at your face, Inspector. You jest look as if I’d told yer all you wanted to know. Still smilin’, eh? Allus the sense o’ ’umour. That’s what I like …”
“Cut it out, Birdie. You have told me what I want to know. You sold ’em to Grossman. Let me see, seven hundred, he gave you, was it? Valued at about five thousand by the insurance people—or more.…”
“You don’t get me that way.”
“Put it another way then, Birdie. You sold the diamonds to Grossman, and his partner killed him for the loot as he was on his way to London to sell them, probably for five or even ten times what you got for them. You’re afraid of Grossman’s associate. He’s a killer, you see. How might it be if he guessed you knew who he was? Do you think he’d rest while you were alive?”
Birdie roared again.
“Allus the ’umourist.… Why, you’ve jest told me that I’m set fer a good stretch after the local beak’s done with me and sent me to the assizes.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about the good stretch, Birdie. You’ve been so useful to the police they might …”
“’ere. I pled guilty, I said, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t. You just laughed. Will you still be laughing to-morrow if you’re granted bail?”
“Bail? Never ’eard of it! Who’d go bail fer me?”
“I would, Birdie, if I thought I would. Two ’umourists, you know. Birds of a feather. You would laugh, wouldn’t you, if I went bail for you?”
“I’d hell as like. I plead guilty and they let me out on bail till the assizes! Don’t be funny.…”
Birdie was beginning to sweat. His red face gradually grew putty colour and the tip of his tongue took a long, slow tour round his large lips.
“Well?”
“Right. It was Grossman.”
“I thought so. And who was in with him?”
“I dunno.…”
“Come now. Where did you take the stuff to?”
“Grossman’s flat up-town.”
“You seem scared of his partner, if any. Why?”
“She’s done fer ’im, hasn’t she?”
“She? So it’s a woman?”
“There was a woman in ’is flat that night. I never see ’er, but she was there. Must ’a just left the room as I come in. There was a cigarette burnin’ in an ash-tray an’ it had red lipstick on it.…”
“Might have been a casual caller.…”
“No. Somebody in Grossman’s confidencks. She never passed me on the stairs as I went up, and her cigarette was there as if she’d just left it. No, if you asks me, she was in the next room while I was there.”
“As I say, casual caller, tucked out of sight till you’d gone.”
“No. The d
oor between the two rooms was left open. Think he’d a done that if he’d not wanted ’er to hear?”
“There sounds sense in that.…”
“You betcha. And if that dame’s done fer Grossman, she might do fer me. I’m not afraid o’ any man. But women, that’s different. When women turns killers they turns good and proper. I want none of it.”
“You’re sure she didn’t go out by the fire-escape or something?’
“The fire-escape’s on the end of the corridor, not in the rooms, in that block.”
“Been casting a professional eye over the place, eh, Birdie?”
“Wot if I ’ave? Sort o’ second nature, as you might say.”
“I’ll bet it is!”
“Anythin’ else?”
“No.”
“An’ don’t ferget. No bail fer me. ’umour or no ’umour, it ’ud be a bad joke if you did.”
“All right, Birdie. No bail, then. Thanks for the information.”
“A pleasure. No ’ard feelings, I hope?”
“No. Good-bye.…”
“Good-bye, Inspector. Got a cigarette?”
Littlejohn threw him a packet containing half a dozen.
“Keep them. Hard to get nowadays; so don’t smoke ’em all at once, Birdie.”
“Thanks a lot, Inspector, ’umour, that’s wot you’ve got.…”
And with that they led Birdie back to his cell.
14
CIGARETTE ENDS
GROSSMAN’S flat was one of three constructed on the several floors of a large house up-town. The place stood in well-kept grounds and probably the rents were high.
The dead man had occupied the ground-floor flat. The landlord held the top one himself and kept an eye on the rest. A daily help cleaned the common staircase and landings. She also kept Grossman’s place tidy and clean.
Littlejohn found the ground-floor flat shut up and the curtains drawn. Grossman’s lease had still two months to go and nothing had been done about a new occupant. The police had already given the rooms a thorough combing, but this had revealed nothing. Not a trace of any secret or illegal activities.
Mrs. Howell, the cleaner, was busy on hands and knees polishing the parquet of the main hall. The front door was wide open, as though to give her air to puff and blow about, for she was making snorting and groaning noises as she dragged her polisher to and fro. Littlejohn wondered what she was doing on her knees at all. But Mrs. Howell was that way. She made a great fuss and labour of everything because she was always sorry for herself and liked something to grouse about.
The Case of the Seven Whistlers Page 11