The Case of the Seven Whistlers

by George Bellairs

  Littlejohn grinned.

  “Want any help?”

  “Well, Littlejohn, what do we do next? Looks as though we’ve struck another dead-end.”

  “Yes. I think I’ll have a meal at my hotel and then rest a bit. I feel all-in after last night’s trip.”

  “What about a bit of lunch together?”

  “I’ll just get a snack, if you don’t mind, and then snooze for a while.”

  “Right-o! See you later. Sorry about the lost journey.”

  They found Littlejohn some chicken sandwiches at his hotel. He ate them with a pint of beer. It was a warm, sunny day, and it might not be bad to take a deck-chair on the shore and snatch forty-winks there.

  There weren’t many people about in the spot he chose, and he sat for some time watching the receding tide. Children were making sand-pies and erecting castles on the damp shore, gulls swooped and cried overhead, and in the distance a destroyer was flashing signals to a shore station. A few boats bobbed about on the water and some late bathers were splashing about in the deeper parts. It was very restful.…

  It was cold when Littlejohn awoke. The tide was far out and all the holidaymakers had gone in to tea. Even the gulls had cleared off. The blue sky had clouded over and the water was like lead. It gave rise to melancholy thoughts.

  Something must have happened to Littlejohn’s mind during his snooze. When he came to himself he was obsessed by a fearful thought. He tried to dismiss it, but it persisted. He realised that he would only dispel it by proving it untrue.

  He slowly folded up his deck-chair and took it back to the old lady from whom he had hired it. And when he paid her he forgot to wait for his change.

  Gillespie was not at the police-station, so Littlejohn asked the sergeant for Robinshaw’s holiday address. He had been getting information for Littlejohn, who had forgotten to ask him about something before he left.

  Then, the Inspector put through a trunk call and managed to catch Robinshaw, who was just having afternoon tea with his beloved and his mother-in-law-to-be.

  18

  THE TOWING PATH

  ROBINSHAW sounded very pleased with himself over the telephone. Littlejohn asked him a few details about his share in the investigation before his departure for holidays, and then casually passed on to small-talk about the weather and how the party were enjoying themselves.

  “Fine,” answered Robinshaw, and Littlejohn could almost see him rubbing his hands with pleasure. The presence of Mrs. Gillespie didn’t seem to bother him at all.

  “Mrs. Gillespie all right?”

  “Yes. Havin’ a good time. Didn’t like leaving her husband behind, but he wanted it. Couldn’t come himself with a murder on his hands, but didn’t mind Mrs. Gillespie coming. In fact, he suggested it at the start and almost insisted. Said she needed a rest.…”

  Littlejohn felt more depressed than ever after that.

  The Superintendent was out at the time, so Littlejohn had a word with the sergeant-in-charge.

  “By the way, could you tell me, sergeant, which constables would be on the Laurieston beat when Miss Curwen lived there. Say, for twelve months before she removed.”

  The sergeant, who resembled an enormous moustached bulldog, grated a large forefinger over his stubbly chin. He was not very active physically, but he had a good memory.

  “Mostly Quinland and Robinshaw, sir.”

  “Robinshaw, eh?”

  “Yes. He’s not been in plain-clothes long. Got on rather fast.…”

  There was a peevish note in the sergeant’s voice, suggesting that Robinshaw had perhaps been unduly pushed up the ladder of promotion.

  “What about Quinland?”

  “He was transferred to the Glesdon force about three months since. Glesdon’s four miles away, inland. A small town with about ten of a force, and under the county, like us.”

  “I see. How do you get there?”

  “Bus is best. Every half hour. Or it’s a nice walk along the towing-path of the canal. Through the country. A lot of people walk in that way.”

  “Thanks, sergeant.”

  “Anything more I can do, sir?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Littlejohn took the next bus to Glesdon. Quinland was off duty, for it was his week on night patrol. The Inspector found him digging potatoes in his back garden. A youngish, fresh-faced officer, whose wife had gone to the pictures and left him minding the youngsters. Two small boys were sorting out the potatoes as their father unearthed them. All three were sweating, grimy and busy.

  Quinland was sheepish about being found in such a dishevelled state by a high-ranker from Scotland Yard. He apologised two or three times, until Littlejohn told him to stop it, and then, after setting the two lads to work digging themselves to keep them out of mischief, the constable took Littlejohn to a little summer-house he had built and there they talked and smoked.

  “I hear you used often to be on the beat which took you past Laurieston at nights, Quinland.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’d know pretty well all that came and went at Laurieston, then?”

  “Yes, sir.…”

  Quinland was beginning to swallow hard and to eye the tip of his cigarette instead of meeting Littlejohn’s look.

  “Had they many visitors at night?”

  “Not many. When the old man was alive, he went early to bed, I know. Miss Curwen’s lady friends used to call. I got used to them. I sort of kept a watchful eye on the place. A big house, with plenty of good stuff in it, specially silver. And with there being only a lady and an old man there, it was as well.…”

  “Any male visitors?”

  Quinland cleared his throat and paused.

  “Now, this is vitally important, Quinland, and concerns the Fetling murder case. You can tell me everything without fear of suffering, if that’s what’s making you reticent.”

  Quinland looked hot and bothered.

  “Well, the murdered man went there once a week or so. That was while Mr. Curwen was bedridden—three months before he died. And after he died, too, Grossman would call. I was moved soon after.”

  “Why?”

  “I really don’t know. It was just one of those moves we all have to expect, I suppose. Came from county headquarters.”

  “You’ve perhaps guessed why you were moved. Now, come along, Quinland. I want the truth. Who else used to call on Miss Curwen?”

  “I … I …”

  “Was it Superintendent Gillespie?”

  “How did you know, sir?”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quinland looked like a boy caught stealing apples. His heart was in his boots, for he saw all hopes of promotion vanishing into air.

  “Did he call often?”

  “Perhaps twice a week.”

  “During Mr. Mark’s lifetime?”

  “Towards the end of it and after he died till I was moved.”

  “Why were you moved?”

  “Well …”

  “Did you tell the Superintendent you’d seen him there?”

  “Not exactly, sir. I saw him several times without him seeing me. But one night I bumped right into him as he was coming out of the gate. Of course, I bid him goodnight.…”

  “Perhaps rather tactless of you. Go on.”

  “Shortly after, the county people wanted somebody here and sent for me. I had to find a house, and here I am.”

  “Thank you, Quinland. And now, not a word of this to a soul.…”

  “Not likely, sir. I’ve had enough of speaking out of my turn. I liked Fetling, and so did the wife. We were sore at this move, especially as it wasn’t what you’d call promotion.…”

  Littlejohn walked back along the towing-path. He felt the need of quiet thought, and this was the most peaceful spot. He lit his pipe and started on his way. Dusk was falling and there was hardly a soul about.

  It was Gillespie’s laugh at Littlejohn’s discomfiture at The Seven Whistlers that had st
arted it all. It was not the sort of laugh one gives at a humorous situation, but a mirthless neigh of triumph. At least that is how it seemed to Littlejohn, and he always trusted first impressions.

  Then, someone had warned Small that his premises were being entered. Littlejohn traced back in his mind his every step of the previous night. He had been caution itself. It looked as though someone who knew he was going had …

  If Small had caught him there, Littlejohn would have been quite unable to justify himself. No search warrant, no reasonable excuse. To say the least of it, he’d have been in a tight corner, and most certainly, if Small had pressed it, would have been recalled to London, if not reduced in rank for unauthorised entry.

  Who would have benefited by such a betrayal?

  Finally, Quinland’s shattering revelation. Gillespie had been in the habit of calling at the Curwens unseen! And this went on even after old Mark’s death.…

  The long stretch of placid water had turned dark green under the clear twilight. The arches of the bridges which bore the roads across the canal were reflected in the water, forming complete circles, half real, half pictures.

  Fishermen were packing-up their stools and tackle and going home.

  A motor-barge with two butties trailing behind slowly passed. The man steering withdrew his pipe, spat in the canal, and bade Littlejohn good evening. He looked so contented. Not a care in the world. His wife was dying in a hospital not far away and his only boy had been killed in the war. You never knew.… Despair brings its own form of resignation.

  The tarred and whitewashed cottages on the banks were beginning to light up. The reflections from their windows shone in the water. A belated crowd of ducks, dignified and orderly, swam eagerly to their shed on the far side and entered, quacking delightedly.

  So Gillespie was deep in the case, not as a policeman, but as a party on the other side. And he had said nothing. He had got rid of his wife and family, too, and was alone in the house.

  If the Superintendent had all that on his mind, no wonder he was moody and bilious. Not his liver, but his conscience, must be troubling him.

  The towing-path led right into the town of Fetling. It was dark when Littlejohn got there. He was very depressed and wished he’d never seen the place.

  The case against Mrs. Doakes had not exactly collapsed like a pack of cards, but had now become a remote possibility. True, the diamonds might have been sent in the registered package to John Doakes, but he and his wife were on poor terms and he was dunning her for money. She would hardly, in such circumstances, trust him with thousands of pounds worth of jewellery. Had she disposed of it elsewhere? Or had she had it at all?

  Nobody saw Mrs. Doakes on the train on which Grossman was killed. And her alibi was weak, but not impossible. She might have been in the pictures all the time the murder was going on.

  It meant starting all over again and sifting every bit of information carefully. This time Littlejohn was alone. Gillespie couldn’t be regarded as a collaborator any more, and with him his police force went out of commission, too.

  Littlejohn rang up Miss Teare, the friend of Barbara Curwen. He wanted to know where he could find Lucy, the maid. Luckily, Miss Teare was in and told him that Lucy had finished at Barbara’s flat and gone home. She lived in Fetling. Miss Teare gave Littlejohn her address.

  Lucy’s mother kept a third-rate boarding house in a back street. A small, fat, half-washed looking woman, she opened the door for Littlejohn and eyed him up and down under the hall lamp. She thought he was after rooms and summed him up as above the average, and therefore was ready to screw up her prices a bit.

  “Wantin’ a room?”

  “No, thank you. Is Lucy in?”

  “Yes. Why? What’s she bin up to again?”

  “Nothing. I’m a police-officer and want to see her concerning the death of Miss Curwen.”

  “You’re only just in time; she’s upstairs dollin’ herself up ready for the pictures. The sooner she gets work the better. That’ll keep her out of mischief. Gaddin’ about …”

  Lucy must have been listening over the balusters, for her head suddenly appeared round them.

  “What is it, ma?”

  “A policeman wants you. Come down, and be quick.”

  “I’ll just put me frock on. Won’t be a jiffy.…”

  The “jiffy” lasted about a quarter of an hour. Lucy was evidently preparing a full toilet for the benefit of Littlejohn or somebody else who was later going to escort her to the films.

  Meanwhile, Littlejohn had to put up with the chatter of her mother in a front room stuffy from lack of open windows and cluttered up with cheap furniture. Now and then boarders entered, went upstairs almost furtively, as though expecting the landlady to rush out and challenge them, and could be heard slamming doors, running water and talking in undertones. Next door, somebody was playing a piano. The strings vibrated like tin and a woman started to sing a popular song in a shrill, affected voice.

  Lucy arrived, got-up to kill. Out of her uniform and dressed in a costume and rakish little hat, she didn’t seem the same person. She had overdone her make-up and looked like a street-walker.

  “Well!!” said her mother. “You do look a fright! Go up and take some of that paint off this minute. I’m a respectable woman and this is a respectable house.…”

  “I won’t be ordered about and called in front of strangers.…”

  The two women were squaring-up ready for a good set-to.

  Littlejohn got cross.

  “Stop it! I’ve waited here long enough. I want a word or two with you, Lucy. You can settle your differences after I’ve gone.”

  “What the gentleman thinks of you, I don’t know. But I know what I think.…”

  “I want a word with Lucy alone, please, Mrs. Lewney.”

  There was a card stuck in the frame of a glass overmantel.

  MRS. LEWNEY,

  Select Apartments.

  So the girl was called Lucy Lewney! Good heavens, what a name!

  Mrs. Lewney didn’t like being shut out, and took it in bad grace. She could be heard out in the lobby giving a boarder the length of her tongue for bringing a woman in with him.

  “This is a respectable house.…”

  Select apartments!

  “Now, Lucy, I want you to cast your mind back to the time when you were with Miss Curwen and tell me what you remember about things I ask you.”

  Lucy sat down in a creaking basket-chair and tried to look attentive and good. She put her ankles together and pulled her frock down over her knees. That was the way they did these things on the pictures. The innocent girl dragged into a sordid scandal …

  “How long were you with the Curwens?”

  “Five years. Started when I left school.”

  “You remember Mr. Grossman calling?”

  “Yes. He came quite a lot.”

  “Have you any idea what started those visits?”

  “It was no business of mine, but I got a good idea. I don’t miss much.…”

  “I’m sure you don’t.”

  Out in the passage the bickering had developed into a full-blown brawl.

  “Take your bag and baggage and get out. This is a respectable ’ome. I won’t ’ave no carryings-on here.…”

  Lucy flapped her hands at Littlejohn, indicating that such a vulgar display was abhorrent to her.

  “Mr. Grossman started calling when Mr. Mark began to sell his collections. He’d been keen on glass, china and furniture, had Mr. Mark. But he got feeble when he was old and hadn’t got the interest in them he had. I heard Miss Barbara tell ’im once that markets were at the top, because the Americans were after things, and that he’d better sell if he wanted good prices. So they got Mr. Grossman to come.”

  “He came a lot after that, didn’t he?”

  Lucy sniggered.

  “Got sweet on Miss Barbara. Rum goings-on.…”

  “Were there other callers? Men, I mean.”

  Lucy smil
ed like Monna Lisa. But she said nothing.

  “Come along now, Lucy. You don’t want to have to tell these things in court, do you? Better tell me quietly here.”

  Quietly! The battle in the hall had developed. They sounded to be launching an attack on the stairs. In a room above somebody was slamming doors and banging drawers, and shrill voices provided an accompaniment.

  “Well, the police called a time or two.”

  “What for?”

  “There was an attempted robbery. Somebody tried to get in through the kitchen window but must have got scared off. Nothing would do for Mr. Mark but send for the police.”

  “Who came up?”

  “A sergeant, and then the Super himself.”

  “Mr. Gillespie?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucy smiled another Monna Lisa.

  “How many times did he call?”

  “I lost count. He became a regular visitor after that.”

  “Did he call to see Mr. Mark?”

  Lucy laughed outright.

  “Not he. He fell for Miss Barbara, too, though I shouldn’t be talking like that about the police.”

  “And he came after Mr. Mark’s death?”

  “Yes. Right to Mr. Grossman’s death. Then he stopped.”

  “I see. When did he call?”

  “Mostly evenings, after I’d gone. I was day-maid and slept here. But I heard things and saw him a time or two. I knew all that went on at Laurieston.…”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  “Yes. And it’s a funny thing, Mr. Gillespie nearly bought that box that Mr. Grossman was found in. Thinkin’ things over after you talked to me, I suddenly remembered it. His wife was wantin’ one and as Mr. Mark was selling stuff, Mr. Gillespie came to buy it. I overheard him and Miss Barbara talking one day about it.”

  “And why didn’t he take it?”

  “Too big, or something. Gave back-word at the last minute. His wife wanted a smaller one. He even took the key of the box.…”

  “The key! What do you mean? That went to The Seven Whistlers.”

  “No. The second key, I mean. The one Miss Barbara had.”

  “But you told me yourself there wasn’t another key. Why did you do that?”

  “I … I …”

  “Were you told to say nothing about Mr. Gillespie’s calling there?’