Whistle Up the Devil

by Derek Smith

  The Sergeant muttered something that sounded more like a profanity than a prayer.

  Craig ignored him elaborately.

  He continued:

  "Let us suppose the killer to be concealed in the room when Roger entered: never mind where, for the moment."

  Lawrence opened his mouth, then shut it again.

  Uncle Russ went on:

  "He emerges and strikes down Querrin from the rear. Then leaving Roger for dead, he turns out the lamp and unlocks the french windows."

  About a dozen objections crowded into the Sergeant's mind at once. Catching his eye, Lawrence waved him hurriedly to silence.

  Craig, however, did not continue immediately. He moistened his lips and said cautiously:

  "I'm rather dry. I suppose there's no such thing as a —as a drink in the station?"

  Hardinge stood up. "I'll make some tea."

  He went through the communicating door. Uncle Russ stared after him without enthusiasm.

  "That wasn't," he confessed, "exactly what I meant."

  Lawrence knuckled his chin. "About this theory of yours. So far—."

  "Please." Craig held up his hand. "Allow me to finish. I am no professional," he said smoothly, "but this could very well be an occasion when the looker-on sees most of the game. You, my boy are too close to this affair to view it clearly."

  "How's that?"

  "My dear fellow," said the old rogue expansively, "you believed your various precautions to be adequate. Since Roger's death proves them otherwise, you have retreated to the illogical acceptance of a patent impossibility. As a defence mechanism, you understand. I say this," added Uncle Russ hastily, "I hope, without offence."

  Lawrence was gracious. "Quite. And I'm always ready to learn. Carry on."

  "Thank you. I await the Sergeant's return." Craig folded his arms portentously.

  Lawrence nodded.

  Hardinge came back and announced cheerfully:

  "I've put the kettle on."

  Craig haa-humphed. "I will continue."

  The Sergeant resumed his position behind the desk without betraying any great interest.

  Uncle Russ went on:

  "As I mentioned before, my analysis of the mystery depends upon the killer's exit through the windows. How then were the bolts secured behind him?"

  "How indeed," echoed Algy, with a glint of mockery.

  "You have forgotten," said Craig reprovingly, "one very important fact. Roger was still alive."

  Lawrence stared.

  "You're not suggesting that Querrin himself secured the windows after he was stabbed?"

  Russell Craig was eager.

  "Certainly. Put yourself in Roger's place. With his last reserves of strength, he drags himself upright. The windows are open, perhaps his murderer is still standing on the steps outside. What is the most urgent thought in Querrin's mind? To protect himself against a further assault. He slams shut the windows and shoots the bolts. Then utterly spent, he collapses."

  Hardinge thought the theory preposterous. He was also angry at its implications. Unable to contain himself any longer, he burst out:

  "Do you think I'm blind? And how do you imagine your hypothetical killer vanished from the steps?"

  Craig was unmoved.

  He said, not replying to the first question:

  "It's simple. The murderer climbed up."

  Lawrence grinned.

  "Would you elaborate?"

  "We know," continued Uncle Russ, "that he had no way of crossing the flower beds without leaving footprints. Obviously then, his only recourse was to climb the side of the house till he reached a window or the roof. He could have let down a rope from the guttering, ready for his escape."

  "What," interrupted Algy, "about the scream?"

  "That," returned Craig, "was the final touch. We will assume that the killer had reached the sanctuary of the roof. He drew up the rope. The time, I should add, was nearly midnight.

  "One thing remained to be done. He had to provide himself with a small hand microphone—."

  "What?"

  "A small hand microphone with a long flex. He lowered this down the chimney—."

  Hardinge groaned audibly, and even Lawrence was moved to protest. "Hold on. What about the fire?"

  "My boy," Craig reproached him, "when you broke into the room the fire was nearly out. Only embers remained… The killer screamed into the microphone, and the sound was relayed through the speaker into the room. Then he wound in the flex and re-entered the house through the skylight."

  The Sergeant asked with restraint:

  "And the murderer's name?"

  "That," admitted Craig, "is the one thing I don't know."

  Hardinge was saved from further comment by the shrill blasting of steam. He said: "That's the kettle," and hurried out.

  Uncle Russ said complacently:

  "There, my boy. I'll leave you to work out the details."

  Lawrence wondered how to spare the old rogue's feelings. He answered patiently:

  "Let's take your theory step by step." He ticked off the points on his fingers. "First, you say the killer was hidden somewhere in the room. Yet I searched it before I left, and there was no one there. Roger was quite alone.

  "Then you want us to believe Querrin re-locked the windows himself. Yet both the bolts are so stiff considerable exertion is needed to shift them. A dying man could never find the strength to shoot them."

  Craig rallied. "What about the door, then?"

  "The same objection applies. It isn't reasonable to assume that a mortally wounded man would drag out his key, lock the door, then carefully replace key and chain in his trousers pocket… Let's get back to your original theory.

  "You say the killer escaped by climbing a rope to the roof—there aren't any windows immediately above the room where Roger died, by the way—but he couldn't do that without leaving slight traces. The police examined the roof, you see, and it's their opinion nobody's been up there for months. The inside of the skylight, also, was fringed with unbroken cobwebs.

  "As for the chimney, it's so choked with soot that even the passage of a flex would inevitably have deluged the fireplace with dirt."

  Craig appeared unconvinced. He said with spirit:

  "At least, I've provided an explanation. Which is more than the police have done."

  Lawrence grinned. "I have an idea their thoughts have already drifted in a similar direction. They searched the house and grounds, you see. There were no serviceable ropes or ladders at all."

  Craig admitted defeat. "All right, then. Perhaps we should approach the problem from another angle." Uncle Russ laid a finger along one side of his large nose. "Look for the motive, my boy. Look for the motive."

  "Which was?"

  Craig said slowly and impressively:

  "If Roger died intestate, his brother will inherit the Querrin fortune."

  "Oh, Lord. Are you telling me Peter stabbed his brother before we left him alone in the room? That's crazy. I was the last to leave. Besides, what makes you think Querrin didn't make a will leaving the money away from his brother? It's possible."

  "Surely we'd have heard if there were such a document in existence?" countered Craig. "You have only to contact Roger's solicitor."

  "If Querrin killed his brother, why did he previously invite me down to guard him?"

  "That's easy," said Uncle Russ promptly. "To divert suspicion."

  Lawrence laughed.

  He said:

  "You've been reading too many detective stories."

  Craig seemed slightly ruffled. "Very well, my boy. Very well. I shall submit my original theory to the proper authorities."

  "Please do," returned Algy politely. "But I'd advise you to explain why Sergeant Hardinge saw nothing of all that funny business with ropes."

  "Obviously," said Craig calmly, "the Sergeant saw everything. And is planning to blackmail the murderer."

  John Hardinge pushed open the communicating door just as Crai
g made his last and least expected suggestion. For an instant, the shock and the surprise held the Sergeant motionless.

  Uncle Russ had time enough to say cheerfully: "We shall probably discover Hardinge was Roger's illegitimate half-brother, or something of the sort," before Lawrence caught sight of the Sergeant's face and jumped up hurriedly.

  Amusement, however, had already begun to seep round the anger in the policeman's eyes as he heard Craig's further contention.

  Uncle Russ gazed at him uneasily.

  Hardinge put down the tray he was carrying and handed the old rogue a steaming cup.

  He said placidly:

  "I'd prefer not to bring an action for slander, sir. So perhaps you'd better not mention that part of your theory to my Inspector… Sugar?"

  Craig said with dignity:

  "I had better retire." He picked up his hat, gloves, and stick. "Good day to you both."

  The door closed behind him with a certain emphasis.

  Hardinge smiled faintly, then replaced cup and saucer on the tray. He said:

  "I suppose I should have expected something of the kind." He sounded rather tired.

  Lawrence murmured a question.

  "What?" The Sergeant fumbled for a reply. "You understand, sir. You're in much the same quandary yourself. Our evidence was substantially the same. We're both in the unhappy position of having to swear to an impossibility. No wonder we're not believed."

  "Come on," said Algy cheerily. "Things aren't so bad as that."

  "Aren't they?" The Sergeant seemed depressed. "I was on guard, and a man died. In Hazlitt's eyes, I'm guilty of criminal carelessness at the very least."

  Lawrence reflected that Craig's wild talk had hurt the Sergeant more than he had thought.

  He cried roundly:

  "The Inspector's an ass."

  "He's my superior officer," Hardinge reminded him wearily. "I may have to resign from the force."

  "Not if I know it," roared Algy, shaken out of his habitual good humour.

  He leaned across the desk. "Listen, Sergeant. I'm going to solve this problem… And when I do, the credit will be yours."

  Hardinge shook his head. "You don't have to worry about me, sir."

  It was a lame and inadequate reply, but as he realized the genuineness of the young man's intentions, he felt a warm flush of pleasure.

  Algy picked up his cup and swallowed the tea rapidly.

  He said:

  "We've got to work."

  He added:

  "I have the feeling that every clue we need to explain the mystery is already in our hands…. "

  They settled down to study the reports once more. The Sergeant's tea, standing unheeded near his elbow, grew cold and unpalatable in the cup.

  At a quarter to six the Sergeant slapped the papers back into the folder and leaned back in his chair.

  "It's no good, sir. We've made no progress at all."

  Lawrence hunched one shoulder. He made no other reply.

  Hardinge smiled suddenly.

  "Don't think I'm ungrateful. But we're both very tired. I doubt if our brains are sufficiently alert."

  "Maybe you're right." Glad enough to escape, Lawrence stood up in his turn. "Though I won't forget the problem completely."

  "Sleep on it," advised the Sergeant. He added with a smile:

  "Shaw will be here soon. I'd better see things are in order."

  Lawrence exchanged farewells with Hardinge, then sauntered out of the station into the street.

  He stood for a moment gazing at the post office, wondering if an interview with the vigilant Miss Watson would prove helpful.

  Then he shrugged and moved on.

  His head was still aching; and a sense of angry hopelessness was obscuring the clarity of thought… He frowned irritably.

  He ought to know the answer.

  Somewhere in the maze of questioning, analysis, and report, was the key to the crime's solution.

  He shaded his eyes wearily. Faces and typescript sprang up on a mental screen, swirled together, blurred and faded. Voices sounded in a nightmare medley….

  He saw it!

  The question that was itself an answer, which pointed the way from the labyrinth.

  He whispered: "How could—?"

  He broke off, and the blood pounded in his throat.

  He slumped against a wall, looking back without vision at the entrance to the station.

  He fumbled the silver case from his pocket and jammed a cigarette between his lips.

  He seemed relaxed and idle, but while the amiable vagueness in his lazy blue eyes deepened to absolute vacuity, the shutters in his mind flew open one by one….

  Hardinge straightened up with shaking hands.

  He backed out of the cell, then clattered heavily along the short corridor back to the Charge Room. His loud footfalls seemed to ring with a threatened panic.

  "Mr. Lawrence!"

  He began to call before he had even reached the door to the street.

  "Mr. Lawrence!"

  He wrenched at the handle, and stumbled through the porch. Standing outside, he cried out again.

  Catching the urgency in the Sergeant's voice, Lawrence straightened up hurriedly. The cigarette dropped from his mouth unheeded.

  "Mr. Lawrence! Come quickly!"

  Algy shoved himself away from the wall and set off at a run. Coming up to the Sergeant, he grabbed his arm with unmeant force.

  "What is it? What's happened?"

  Hardinge said, with an effort; "In the cells, sir. Go quickly."

  Lawrence stared into the other's strained face. Then without another word, he ran past him into the station.

  In the passage behind the Charge Room, he stopped suddenly.

  The door to Turner's cell was open. Lawrence went forward slowly.

  Old Simon sprawled face downwards on the floor beside his bunk. Lawrence dropped to his knees beside him.

  He lifted the old man's head gently, and looked into the sightless eyes. He shivered. The flesh was cold against his hands.

  He stood up. His gaze went up to the small barred window above the bed, then round to the open door.

  Hardinge stepped in from the corridor.

  He said dully:

  "I found him, like that." His tongue flicked briefly over his lips.

  He whispered, incredulously:

  "He's dead."

  7

  Hazlitt said coldly:

  "This man was murdered."

  His tone was an accusation.

  Algy Lawrence made no reply. He was feeling slightly sick.

  A barely controlled anger showed clearly in every cadence of the Inspector's voice. He came through the communicating door from the Charge Room and stood gazing at them sourly.

  Lawrence and Hardinge had been waiting in the Sergeant's quarters. In the station proper, Hazlitt and his men were investigating Turner's death.

  Hardinge stood up. His superior officer said grimly:

  "You can sit down, Sergeant. You've no official status in this particular affair."

  The words were ominous.

  Lawrence asked, with an effort:

  "How did old Simon die?"

  The Inspector scowled. "Don't you know?"

  "I'd say, at a guess, that the old man was strangled."

  "It was," admitted Hazlitt, "a form of strangulation. Though not," he added, "the usual, rather clumsy, kind."

  He walked towards them. He said:

  "You can throttle a man in many ways. With your hands round his windpipe, with a cloth, with wire, even with the crook of a stick. But this—."

  He broke off. "This was different. I'll demonstrate."

  He stepped behind Hardinge's chair. The Sergeant sat upright, but kept his face impassive.

  The Inspector said:

  "I won't explain in detail. But roughly, this is the method. You approach your victim from behind, then dig your thumbs in the hollows of his neck just below the ears, like this"—he seized
Hardinge's neck—"and press hard… I don't pretend to know all the medical details. It's something to do with the nerve centres, and the carotid arteries."

  He dropped his hands.

  "The pressure produces unconsciousness, then death. It's swift. And it's deadly."

  Lawrence nodded. "So that's how Turner died. I suspected as much. You're right about the method, Inspector. It cuts off the supply of blood to the brain."

  Hazlitt thanked him ironically. "There's no mystery there. My job is to discover who killed him."

  "No easy task," said Lawrence thoughtfully. He was beginning to appreciate the complexities of this, the latest problem.

  "That's right," agreed Hazlitt grimly.

  He paced away from them, and turned his back.

  He said, over his shoulder:

  "Motive, means, and opportunity. Those are the three things we need to consider. We don't know why Turner was murdered, but we do know how he died." He twisted round to face them. "But who killed him?"

  Lawrence swallowed. He said irritably:

  "Get on with it, Inspector. We know what's in your mind."

  Hazlitt said:

  "First, let's establish the time of death." He looked towards Lawrence. "You, sir, arrived at the station shortly after four o'clock."

  "Yes. Sorry I can't be more precise."

  The Inspector went on:

  "You interviewed the prisoner—I won't comment on that, for the moment—and left him in his cell about ten minutes later. At that time, he was alive and unhurt."

  Algy nodded. "I'll swear to that."

  "You may have to. Right, then. At seven minutes to six, you, Sergeant, made a routine check of the cells before your relief arrived."

  Hardinge jerked his head. "Yes, Inspector. P.C.Shaw was to have taken over at six o'clock... The door of Turner's cell was open. I ran forward and found him on the floor. He was dead."

  Hazlitt muttered:

  "Then you called back Mr. Lawrence, and rang Tyssen and myself. Meanwhile Shaw reported for duty"—he mumbled—"we know the rest. Well, now."

  He stared at them both. "We've established, then, that Turner died some time between fifteen or twenty-minutes past four and seven minutes to six. Those are wide enough limits. Fortunately we can narrow them down a little."

  Lawrence interrupted. "I can help you there. I examined Turner's body. I'd say he'd been dead for at least an hour."