“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“Miss Barbara. Said she’d sack me at a moment’s notice and give me no references if I said a word. I daren’t risk that. My ma thought the world of Miss Barbara and would have had the hide off me if I’d had the sack.…”
I’ll say she would, thought Littlejohn. Mrs. Lewney had now reached the state of conflict where one throws the bags down the stairs. The lodger could be heard descending after them, swearing like a trooper, with Mrs. Lewney after him, giving as much as she was getting.
“And don’t you dare show your face here again. Respectable house, this is.…”
“How did Mr. Gillespie get the other key?”
“I saw Miss Barbara give it to him. ‘You might as well take this,’ she says, and he puts it in his waistcoat pocket. And the look he gave her. Proper sweet on each other they was.…”
“And was Mr. Grossman in the running at the same time?”
“Yes. Though I don’t know …”
“Never mind that. Now, not a word to anyone about this, Lucy. Not even to your mother.”
“As if I would. I know better than talkin’ scandal about the police. Once they get their knife in you, you’re done for.”
“I’m glad you’ve such a healthy idea of us, Lucy.”
Lucy Lewney smiled coyly.
“’ave you two not done yet? I want this room.…”
Mrs. Lewney, snorting and palpitating from her moral exertions, glared and started to dust furiously about.
“Yes. I’ll be going now. Thank you both.”
“You ’eard that. Glad you did. The police’ll know now that this is a respectable ’ouse. Takin’ a woman up to ’is bedroom, he was. Said they’d an hour to wait for the pictures and he couldn’t have ’er standin’ about in the cold. I’ll give ’im cold. This is a respectable …”
It looked as though Mrs. Lewney had been putting on a special show for the benefit of the police!
19
A FRESH START
IT meant starting all over again, and this time it was a rim, solitary battle for Littlejohn.
It was bad enough pursuing a layman for murder. But now a police officer was involved. Gillespie was in it up to the neck!
It was extremely difficult making investigations concerning the movements of a colleague in the police, but it had to be done.
The railway station was almost deserted when the Inspector called there. That dismal, depressing atmosphere of between-trains which surrounds a terminus at night. The stationmaster’s office was closed and all his staff had gone home. A foreman porter was in charge of the place. The night shift were working in the parcels office.
Littlejohn drifted casually in among the baggage and large, brown-paper packages.
“Two—Willesden Junction; Four—Leicester; One—East Croydon; Six—Manchester …”
They were still hard at it.
A new clerk was in charge. He was dressed in flannel trousers and a sports jacket and looked doped already with the monotonous repetition of the work.
“Let me see, were you on duty the night the man was murdered in the train from here?”
The clerk looked up from his book and stuck his pencil behind his ear.
“Yes. Why?”.
“I’m on the case.”
“Oh, I see. Not gettin’ 011 so fast, eh?”
“Can’t say we are. It’s a very difficult nut to crack. By the way, was my colleague Gillespie here on the day it happened?”
“Yes. There’d been some thieving. Several packages of cigarettes opened. In fact, it got so bad we had to call in the police. Two hands were caught and fined. Ought to have gone to gaol by rights, but it was a first offence.”
“Three—Bletchley; Seven—Clapham Junction; One—Sevenoaks …”
A cold wind blew through the station, scattering bits of paper and throwing up the dust.
“Oh. The Superintendent himself was on the job! What time?”
“About half an hour before Grossman’s train went out. I remember remarking about it. The police nearly always get there too late; this time they were too soon. Uh, uh, uh …”
The man was offensive, but Littlejohn let him be.
It was dangerous to pursue the matter further. The buffet was still open, so Littlejohn went and bought himself a cup of tea. It was poor stuff but it warmed him up. The foreman porter passed and the girl at the counter called him and handed him a free drink. She rolled her eyes at him as she did so. He was evidently a favourite.
“Cold night,” said Littlejohn.
“Yes. Be glad when the last train’s gone and I can get to the fire. I’m chilled to the marrer.…”
He winked at the girl and raised his cup in a sort of mock toast.
“All the best, Bessie.”
“I hear the police were here just before the murder of Grossman the other day. Pity they didn’t stay.”
“Yes. I’ve made the same remark myself. You’re on the case, aren’t you? Looks like being one of the unsolved mysteries, if you ask me. Perfect crime, eh? Nobody seen who did it; whoever did it left no trace, eh?”
He sniffed, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and looked delighted with his own wisdom.
“It’s a teaser and no mistake. Were you on duty when the London train went out with Mr. Grossman aboard?”
“Yes. I was on the platform. Never saw nobody suspicious about. It beats me how the murderer got on and off the train.”
“I suppose you saw Superintendent Gillespie on the station just before it left?”
“Not just then. No. He’d been here about the pinchin’ of some cigarettes. Left about half an hour before. I saw him goin’ off in the direction of the town then. Pity he didn’t stay to hold the little chap’s hand, eh?”
Littlejohn went disconsolately away and started to climb the steps of the narrow, sloping street past The Seven Whistlers. The shop was closed but there was a light shining through the open door of the back premises. The inspector determined once and for all to put Mrs. Doakes out of the running if he could. He rattled the door-handle until she appeared. She was doing the books, it seemed, before she set out for the evening. She wasn’t pleased to see him.
“You here again! Pity you can’t keep proper hours. The shop’s closed and I’m busy.”
“I won’t keep you a minute. May I come in?”
Mrs. Doakes led the way through the shop to the room behind. It was as untidy as ever and the sink was full of dirty dishes.
“Glad you’re not stopping for long. I’m going out.”
“I wanted to talk to you about your alibi on the night Mr. Grossman was murdered. It wasn’t a very good one, you know.”
“What do you mean? I said I was in the pictures, didn’t I? And I meant it. I was seen going in and coming out. What more do you want?”
“It’s easy to get out once you’re in, and in once you’re out without being seen, you know. I mean, if you’d wanted to get out meanwhile you could well have done so.”
“Well, I didn’t. Why should I? You’re not thinking I murdered Grossman, are you? You are!! I do believe you are!! Well, I like that! What should I want to murder Grossman for? He was more use to me alive than dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who do you think made all the profits of this place? Not Small. He’s drunk half his time and makes as many losses when he’s boozed as gains when he’s sober. No. Grossman made the money here. Bought cheap in the provinces and sold dear in London. And knew what he was selling. I get a cut of the profits. I wouldn’t be likely to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“Not if he had a pocketful of diamonds to make it worth while?”
“What are you getting at?”
“The Coatcliffe necklace. Grossman bought that from Jameson. Wasn’t he taking it to hawk in London when he was murdered? And weren’t you and Small aware of it?”
Mrs. Doakes eyes bulged, she caught her breath, and then
roared with laughter.
“So that’s what you’ve been getting at. Well, that’s a good one! The damned necklace wasn’t here when Grossman got his packet. It was sold and far enough away from Fetling.”
“How do you know that?”
“I may as well tell you. Grossman’s dead and past harming. You seem to know he was a fence. So did Small and me, although he never said a word about it. And I twigged how he got rid of the stuff, too. There’s a Dutch boat puts in here from time to time. The skipper’s a Captain Cornelius. He always called to see Grossman when he docked. Anybody more unlike Grossman’s type you couldn’t imagine. Yet they’d spend the evening together at Grossy’s flat regularly. That’s where the stuff went. Direct from here to the Continent. Cornelius called just after the Jameson Raid, as me and Small called it for fun, and was sure to take the diamonds off with him. If you want a motive for me killing Grossman, don’t try that. I wanted him alive; not dead.”
The woman spoke with quiet conviction, and Littlejohn believed her. In fact, he was ready from the start to cross her off as a suspect. All he wanted was some assurance.
“So you suspect me? Well, I’ll have to better my alibi, then, though I didn’t want to mention this. If you’ll not make it public, I’ll tell you. I was in the pictures with somebody who can prove I was there. I met him inside and was with him all the time.”
“Why?”
“He’s divorced his wife and the decree absolute isn’t through yet. Doakes and me are getting a divorce, too, and then my friend’s marrying me, see? We want no slip-up, so I see him on the quiet at present.”
“Oh. Well, if I want his name I’ll ask you for it then. I’m glad you told me this. I’ll probably manage without his confirmation, but I shall expect the name if I need it.”
“O.K. Decent of you. That’s why I’ve been a bit awkward about this affair. It means a lot to me, marrying and settling down with my friend.”
“Right. I won’t keep you longer, Mrs. Doakes. Good night.”
“Good night, Inspector.”
Littlejohn had no inclination to return to the police station. He felt no desire to face Gillespie without having made up his mind what to do about the Superintendent’s part in the affair. He must think about it first.
The promenade lights were on and the tide was in. Most of the people were indoors at one or another of the amusements and only a few strollers were taking the air. A chill wind was blowing. Littlejohn lit his pipe and sat in one of the shelters facing the sea. In the distance you could see the intermittent rays of a lighthouse and in the foreground the riding lights of two boats making for the old harbour.
First of all, suppose that Gillespie had been involved in a love affair with Barbara Curwen. He didn’t look the romantic sort, but it might happen to anyone.
Grossman was also connected in some way with Barbara. London reports said he’d stayed with her at the same hotel. Was she running the pair of them?
If so, it might easily be a case of jealousy, or blackmail, or both. Gillespie might have discovered Grossman’s part in the matter and killed him.
Or, more likely, a little crook like Grossman might have got hold of something against Gillespie and the Superintendent might have murdered him to quieten him.
All very well, but again a theory. It might all fizzle out just as in the case of Mrs. Doakes.
The shelter in which Littlejohn was sitting had a separate landward side, and behind the partition two lovers were quarrelling. The sound of them provided a relief from the Inspector’s own unhappy thoughts.
“You know he doesn’t mean anything to me.…”
“The way you look at him when you’re dancing’s enough.…”
“Are you trying to pick a quarrel …?”
“No, but I’m fed up with the way you go on.…”
The eternal squabble. Old as Adam and Eve.
Some hooligans larking along the promenade threw a fire-cracker at a passing couple and a violent row arose between the riff-raff and the offended parties.
But Gillespie had the second key. That was it! If only there was some way of bringing it home to Gillespie.…
It would have been easy for him to kill Grossman. Especially if Barbara Curwen knew and told Gillespie that Grossman was going on a certain train. But she was in London. Had she telephoned Gillespie? The box was large enough for Gillespie’s body. After all, he wasn’t as big as Littlejohn, and the Inspector felt he could have squeezed himself into the chest at a pinch for a very limited period.
He remembered Gillespie sewing on a button with needle and cotton. Perhaps he’d used his skill on the packing round the box, as well.
So, there it was, the new theory.
Gillespie decides to kill Grossman for some reason or other. Blackmail or jealousy. He learns, probably from Barbara, that Grossman’s travelling on a certain train to London. He seeks a way of getting at the little man unseen by anyone.
Through the sidings, as previously it had been assumed Mrs. Doakes had done. And he has learned, almost fortuitously, that the chest is going by the same train.
He boards the train unseen, and whilst the guard is prowling for tickets, hides in the box, the packing of which he’s loosened. Then, the coast clear, Grossman’s body, unconscious, replaces that of Gillespie. The box is locked, the packing sewn up, and Gillespie sneaks out at the next stop and returns to Fetling.
The lovers were still hard at it.
“If you loved me, you wouldn’t suspect me of things like that.…”
“If you loved me, you wouldn’t do them.…”
“Oh, very well, if you’re tired of me …”
Littlejohn could almost have told them what to say next.
The funny thing was that Littlejohn had told it all to Gillespie in reference to Mrs. Doakes. No wonder Gillespie laughed! In his position of confidence he could see the net tightening around the wrong person and was glad to let it do so. He even helped it along. Telephoned Small and launched him on Littlejohn right in the middle of his job of amateur burglary!
And he’d almost got away with it! If Doakes and his wife had not been on bad terms, and if Quinland hadn’t happened to stumble across the Superintendent during his visits to Laurieston …
Gillespie might have killed Barbara Curwen, too. Or, maybe it was suicide. Perhaps she hadn’t been able to bear the idea of one man killing another through her.
Or, again, after being questioned about the second key and lying by saying she’d given it Grossman instead of Gillespie, she may have tackled Gillespie about his share in the crime and he, finding her a menace, had killed her.
That crime might never be solved. It had the characteristics of a suicide.…
The lovers on the other side of the shelter were making it up. “I didn’t mean what I said. You know it’s you I love …”
“If I lost you, I’d kill myself.…”
Littlejohn had had enough about killing for one night. He made off to a telephone kiosk to ring up Scotland Yard and have them immediately check any calls Barbara Curwen might have made from her hotel. It was a long shot but might bring in results. They were to ring his hotel and tell him at whatever hour the information came.
The now happy pair were kissing in the shelter.
I wish everything ended happy ever after, thought Littlejohn. And with his head down and his shoulders hunched, he sorrowfully made for his hotel.
20
THE QUIET HOUSE
SCOTLAND YARD came on at half-past two in the morning.
Luckily, there was an instrument in every bedroom at Littlejohn’s hotel, so he hadn’t to get up and go down for the call. But the night-porter was annoyed. He’d been having a snooze. Some of the guests had no consideration at all.…
Barbara Curwen had rung-up Fetling 2222 on the day Grossman died. That was the number of Fetling police station!
That settled it. Littlejohn slept no more that night. He tossed and turned and, in the end, in desperation, ma
de an enemy for life of the night-porter by ringing up his home at Hampstead at four in the morning. There was a bedside telephone between their two beds there.
“My God, I’m glad to hear your voice, Letty.”
“Whatever’s the matter. Are you ill?”
“No. Worse. It’s this case. It’s got me down.”
“I’ve never heard you say that before. Whatever is it? Are you in danger?”
“No. I think I’ve solved it, and it’s appalling.”
“Can’t you tell me?”
“Remember the Crossbank case … It’s the same sort of criminal.”
“Oh.…”
She understood!
“Like me to come down and collect you in the car when it’s over?”
“I’d be glad if you would. Sorry I can’t ask you to stay a day or two. The sooner I get away from this damned place the better.…”
“Wherever have you been? I thought they’d be fishing you out of the sea next,” said Gillespie when Littlejohn entered his room early next morning.
“No. Some new developments kept me busy and you were out when I called early in the evening.”
“Just shopping. On my own, you know. Anything to report?”
Gillespie spoke slowly, staring straight at Littlejohn as though he’d sensed a change in the Inspector’s manner. His hands alone betrayed his nervous tension. They were gripped tightly, one in the other, across the desk.
“What did you do with the second key when Miss Curwen gave it to you some time ago, Superintendent?”
The hands relaxed and stayed limp. Gillespie’s face grew strangely composed. You wouldn’t have thought it possible in the teeth of such a startling question.
“Here,” he said, and taking it from his pocket, rose, placed it on the corner of his desk nearest Littlejohn with his left hand and delivered a crashing blow on the point of the Inspector’s chin with his right.
Then he rang for the sergeant.
“Inspector Littlejohn’s just gone over, Smith,” he said when the man entered with heavy feet. “He’s been up on the case all night and seems all in. Help me with him to my car and I’ll see him to his hotel and get a doctor. The man’s been at it too hard.”
The Case of the Seven Whistlers Page 16