The Case of the Seven Whistlers

by George Bellairs

  She looked over her shoulder at Littlejohn, gave an extra fortissimo groan to show how hard was the work, and rose to her feet. Littlejohn got quite a surprise. She must have had long legs and a short body, for although apparently of normal height when genuflecting, she extended almost to Littlejohn’s length when standing upright. And she was as thin as a lath. With her hatchet face, hooked nose, small, dark eyes, pointed chin, she might have been a bird of prey waiting for its next meal.

  “Well?”

  “Are you Mrs. Howell?”

  “Yes.”

  She clasped the pole of the polisher in her long hands like a quarterstaff and looked ready for all comers.

  “I’m the officer in charge of the Grossman case and would like to see his rooms.”

  “Well, I’ve not got the key. The police tuck all the keys and they’ve not sent them back.”

  “I have them here, and I’ll leave them with you when I go.”

  “Much good that’ll do, because I’ve enough work ’ere without settin’ to and cleaning up that place after all the bobbies has tramped over it with their big boots and then locked it up to go dusty and me not able to get at it. An’ then not knowing where me pay was comin’ from even if I did do it.…”

  “Suppose we go and have a look.…”

  “Oh, we can go an’ have a look, but I’ve not got all day to be lookin’. This place is more than one’s job, though them as owns it don’t think so. Killin’ it is.…”

  Littlejohn opened the main door of the flat. There was a small hall, and three doors led from it.

  “This is the livin’ room …”

  Mrs. Howell flung open one of the doors and rushed to the window to draw back the curtains. The sun streamed in, revealing a room furnished with taste. Good antique furniture, a few nice pictures on the walls and a bookcase of opulently-bound volumes in uniform calf. The rich, blue carpet showed off the tones of the fine mahogany. In cases were silver and cut-glass, and they had an air of being in use instead of museum pieces.

  Grossman had known how to do himself well!

  A door in one corner led into a bedroom, furnished with equal expense and taste. Probably this was the room mentioned by Jameson as the hiding-place of the woman he suspected was with Grossman when he called with his plunder.

  Littlejohn strolled round the place. The other room was a neat kitchenette, which gave access through another door to a second bedroom. A queer arrangement, but probably done to save expense when the place was converted from a house into flats.

  Mrs. Howell followed close on Littlejohn’s heels. With many lamentations, she pointed out where the police had disturbed the place or caused her much more work by keeping it locked.

  She ran here and there, snorting, picking things up and putting them down again, flicking up the dust, indicating places on the expensive carpets where the boots of heavy constables had sullied them.

  “Disgustin’! Disgraceful! ’orrible!”

  “Well, I don’t suppose it’s much use troubling yourself about it, Mrs. Howell. The furniture and such will probably be sold and the rooms vacated.”

  “Locked rooms in a ’ouse isn’t good for the rest of the place. Dust breeds dust and it spreads all over.…” said the woman with the certainty of an expert on those matters.

  The local police had made a thorough job of searching through Grossman’s effects, and Littlejohn didn’t propose to do it all over again.

  Mrs. Howell was of more interest at present.

  “Did you clean this place every day?”

  “Every mornin’. And I must say Mr. Grossman was a tidy little man who didn’t leave me a lot of mess to clear up after ’im.”

  She said it with reluctance, as though resenting having little or nothing to grouse about.

  “… Different from some as I might mention not so far away.”

  She jerked her head back, as though someone had delivered her an uppercut, to indicate the flats above.

  “Did he have many visitors?”

  “Now and then. He’d bring home people he ’ad dealings with from time to time.”

  “Any regular friends call?”

  Mrs. Howell gave Littlejohn an arch look, but said nothing.

  “Lady friends, Mrs. Howell?”

  The good woman planted her polishing mop firmly, clasped the handle with both fists, and looked set for the day.

  “I’m a dishcreet woman, I am.…”

  “I know. I’m sure you are. But Mr. Grossman is dead. Murdered, in fact. I want to get to know all about him.”

  Mrs. Howell’s face seemed to change. Her long, loose, upper-lip had previously been tight with grievance. Now it grew soft and drawn-back, revealing a lot of long, irregular teeth. Her eyes, too, became animated, and the pleasure of having something to gossip about seemed to fatten her cheeks.

  “Well. There was a woman. A regular friend as used to call a night or two a week. I see her ’ere once or twice when I stayed or come back to wash up after those disgraceful bottle parties, as they call them, held in the flats upstairs. I’m regular Chapel, I am, and don’t hold with such carryings on, but I get paid and …”

  “Yes, Mrs. Howell. But what about Mr. Grossman’s visitor?”

  “Don’t be so out o’ patience. I was comin’ to it. She used to visit him once or twice a week. Left at quite a respectable ’our. Elevenish, I’d say. What they did, I don’t know. Perhaps discussed antiques, or played chess, or cards.…”

  With a sweep of a claw she indicated the old furniture and glass, a lovely set of red and black chessmen in one of the cases, and a pack of cards on a small table. Like a lecturer giving examples.

  “I wouldn’t say there was any carryin’s on. Seemed quite a decent little man. Not a lot o’ booze about, everythin’ neat and tidy and as it should be. Different from …”

  And she gave herself another ghostly uppercut to show how different were the riff-raff up above.

  “I’d be the last to make suggestions.…”

  “I’m sure you would, Mrs. Howells.”

  “Howell—no S.…”

  “Sorry. You knew Mr. Grossman’s lady friend?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t say who it was and shut her mouth tight, as though wishing to maintain the suspense through her own good time.

  “Miss Curwen?”

  Mrs. Howell looked very annoyed. She didn’t like being forestalled.

  “If you know, why ask me?”

  “You cleaned up this place on the day Mr. Grossman met his death?”

  “I did. Pore little man.”

  If she was sorry, she didn’t show it. Her face was like a mask.

  “Anything unusual? I mean, glasses to wash, cigarette ends, cigar-butts?”

  “No. Not as I reckerlect.”

  “Did Mr. Grossman’s lady friend smoke?”

  “Yes. That’s ’ow I always knew she’d been here. He didn’t smoke, himself. Now, she smoked cigarettes as smelled different. Nearly like cigars, they was. Place stank of ’em the day after. I used ter open the windows wide, it ’ung around so much.…”

  “Turkish or Egyptian?”

  “Arabian Nights o’ some sort.”

  “Hm.”

  “An’ always red lipstick on them. Faugh! Lipsticks! I’ve no use for such like.…”

  “I’m sure you haven’t.”

  “No.”

  “And you don’t remember any other visitors, Mrs. Howell?”

  “No. I’m rarely here at nights. With Miss Curwen bein’ more or less regular and the tenants upstairs talkin’ about ’er and ’im, I jest knew of ’er.”

  “That’ll be all, then, Mrs. Howell. And thanks for your help.”

  Littlejohn gave the woman half-a-crown, which she pocketed with great nonchalance and no thanks, like an elephant taking a bun.

  “The police asked me to leave the keys with you now. They’ve finished with the place.”

  “I don’t know what to do with them. They
don’t expect me to clean up after ’em, do they, and ’im dead?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Those are your set, I believe, and you may as well have them. The set that belonged to Mr. Grossman will be handed over to his solicitors.”

  “Who are they? I’ve not been paid all me dues.…”

  “I don’t know. I suggest you ask the police—or I will for you. Is there a telephone?”

  Mrs. Howell indicated a small cupboard in the vestibule.

  “There.…”

  Littlejohn telephoned Gillespie for the information Mrs. Howell needed. Then he asked him to find out from Birdie Jameson if the cigarette he found burning was an oriental one.

  There was a pause.

  “Yes. Jameson’s just been remanded to the assizes and he seems very pleased there’s no bail. What he’s bothering about bail for, I can’t think. As if … You seem amused! By the way, he says the flat stank of Egyptian cigarettes when he called.”

  “I think it was Barbara Curwen who was there at the same time as Birdie. I’ll be seeing you as soon as I can get to the station. We’d better get hold of that lady again and see what she has to say for herself.”

  Having left Mrs. Howell as satisfied as possible, Littlejohn made his way to meet Gillespie.

  The Superintendent was out, but had left a message with the station sergeant that Littlejohn was to meet him at the town mortuary.

  “Why, what’s been happening?”

  “They found a body washed up on the rocks at low tide and the Super’s hurried round with the doctor to have a look.”

  “Anyone I’d know?”

  “Maybe, sir. Friend o’ the late Mr. Grossman, as you might say. Miss Barbara Curwen, sir.…”

  15

  DEATH ON BLIGH HEAD

  IT was very difficult to form any idea of how Barbara Curwen had met her death. She had been found on a small beach at the foot of Blight Head, a rocky headland jutting into the sea and forming the northern extremity of Fetling Bay.

  The river entered the sea just off the headland, where currents were always strong and crossed. Anything thrown in the river higher up gathered and swirled around the Head and at low tide there was a heavy deposit of rubbish on the rocks there.

  Miss Curwen’s body might have been washed down the river and simply left for somebody to find at the ebb.

  A man, hunting for crabs, it seems, had come upon the corpse and given the alarm at once.

  The doctor was unable exactly to give the cause of death; which was not to be wondered at. The head was badly battered, apparently from being pounded by the currents against the rocks. Time of death was about eight or nine o’clock the previous night.

  So, it might have been suicide or murder. Barbara Curwen might have thrown herself over the cliff at Blight Head out of despair. First her father had died; then her best friend. She might have done it from worry.…

  Or, again, someone might have struck her on the head and thrown the body in the river, whence it had found its way to the spot where the river cast its burdens before joining the sea.

  Gillespie took Littlejohn to the place where they had found the body. Two policemen were there, still questioning the crab-hunter who had raised the alarm. He was gesticulating freely, pointing to the rocks, to the pools where he got crabs, out to sea where the river slowly mingled with the salt water. A little, nondescript man, highly excited and full of self-importance because the limelight of publicity had already fallen upon him. The newspaper men had just been quizzing him and one of them had taken his photograph.

  The ambulance had carried the body away, of course, but there was still a crowd of idlers and holidaymakers with nothing to do staring at the rocks and trying to overhear what the officials were saying.

  “Come on, there’s nothing more to see. Dinner’ll be cold when we get to the digs.…”

  A little man in a straw panama and white shoes gathered his family together. The youngest wanted to stay on and started to howl. Their departure seemed to be the signal for the rest to make off, and gradually the spectators melted away.

  A busy reporter in a raincoat was taking notes and talking to the policemen.

  “You the Scotland Yard man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any theories?”

  “No.”

  Littlejohn led Gillespie off.

  “Nothing much we can do here. I’d better see what’s happening at Miss Curwen’s flat and try to find out her movements last night.”

  “Good idea. Any line you’d like us to follow?”

  Gillespie was very morose again.

  “Yes. You might find out where Small and Mrs. Doakes were at the time of the crime.…”

  “Hullo! Still on that tack?”

  “Yes. The only line to follow as yet.”

  “Right. I’ll put a man on at once.”

  “You’ll probably find it’s the same old tale. Small boozing before everybody’s eyes at the Bay Hotel; Mrs. Doakes at the pictures.…”

  Later, it turned out that was the case.

  Barbara Curwen had by this moved all her belongings into her new flat; so Littlejohn made his way there.

  As he passed the picture-house he saw the overclad commissionaire busily hanging the cases of stills on hooks in front of the building.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good mornin’, sir. Managed to get safely out of the scrum the other night?”

  “Yes, by the skin of my teeth. Was Mrs. Doakes here again last night?”

  “Yes. Change of pictures. I saw ’er come in for the first house.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. And another thing. After what you said the other night, I kep’ me eyes open. Watched for her comin’ out. She came out all right. But she joined the crowd from the ladies’ room, just as you said.…”

  That did it! She’d used the same plan twice!

  If only they could trace Barbara Curwen’s steps to The Seven Whistlers. As likely as not, the police questioning had aroused Miss Curwen’s suspicions and she had faced Mrs. Doakes with the murder and met the same fate as Grossman.

  But there was no help forthcoming at Miss Curwen’s flat.

  The silly little maid was still there, wild eyed, dishevelled, not knowing whether she was on her head or her heels.

  “I was out all last night. My night off,” she snivelled. “I left Miss Curwen here, listenin’ to the wireless, waitin’ for Miss Teare. She seemed all right. Been a bit worried some way, but told me nothing. What am I goin’ to do?”

  “Be quiet, Lucy. I’ve told you I’ll look after you. Stop fussing. You’re only sorry for yourself. Now be off to the kitchen.…”

  That from Miss Teare, who was there when Littlejohn arrived. A large, swarthy, flat-footed woman of middle-age, dressed in tweeds and enormous brogues. She tramped heavily here and there, masterfully trying to take the situation in hand.

  “Suicide! Rubbish!!” she said in answer to Littlejohn’s question. “I’ll admit she was a bit too friendly with that little Grossman. I never liked him myself, by the way. But not so much as to throw herself into the sea because he happened to get himself murdered. If you ask me, she’d found out something about how Grossman was killed and poked her nose in where she shouldn’t have done.…”

  “Were you intimate with Miss Curwen, Miss Teare?”

  “Her best friend. We golfed together. We should have gone to the cinema last night, but when I called, she was out. I suppose she went off on this errand while she was waiting for me and …”

  Miss Teare didn’t seem greatly moved by the tragedy. Or, if she was, she kept it bottled up inside her. Her heavy poker-face retained its indignant lines. Perhaps she hadn’t got over being kept hanging about for two hours by Barbara, who’d got herself murdered instead of going to the pictures with her.…

  “Did you know Mr. Grossman?”

  “Yes. Met him at Barbara’s old place a time or two. Never took to him. Slimy little chap, I thought. But Barbara seeme
d to like him. It was her own affair.”

  “She never took you into her confidence about the matter, then?”

  Miss Teare’s large nose twitched and her heavy nostrils dilated.

  “Never mentioned him. I once told her I didn’t like the fellow and we had a bit of a row, so I never raised it again. She’s brought this on herself. If she’d followed my advice …”

  Even with the two parties to the affair dead, Miss Teare was still jealous of them it seemed.

  “How long were you here last night, did you say?”

  Miss Teare looked moved for the first time. She started and gave Littlejohn a nasty look. Her ugly face screwed up into hard wrinkles and she planted her large brogues firmly on the carpet.

  “I was here from half-past seven to half-past nine. But I don’t see what it’s got to do with you.”

  “Perhaps you don’t, Miss Teare. But I’m not asking questions for the fun of it. What did you do?”

  “I sat and read a magazine, listened to the radio, helped myself to a drink, and then cleared off in disgust. You’re not insinuating that I had anything to do with Barbara’s death, are you? Because, if you are, I’ll soon have you put in your place. My father’s on the County Council and I’ll see that …”

  “Don’t get excited, Miss Teare. These are purely routine enquiries. I’m sure you’re as anxious as we are to get to the bottom of your friend’s death.”

  “Of course I am. But I don’t know anything about it.”

  There was a look of feverish intensity in Miss Teare’s eyes. Littlejohn wondered what it was all about. Perhaps she had fancied Grossman, too, and been jealous of her friend. You never know.…

  Littlejohn decided to leave the Curwen affair for the time and turn to Grossman again. Probably the solution of the first crime would bring that of the second in its wake.

  At Fetling station he sought details of motive and method of attack. The latter was quickly explained.