Whistle Up the Devil

by Derek Smith

His voice sharpened. "I'm warning you. Don't move."

  Russell Craig stirred suddenly.

  Querrin snapped:

  "Get up. Stand over there, behind Lawrence."

  The old rogue hesitated.

  Algy called sharply: "Do as he says."

  Craig levered himself up painfully. A thin smear of blood showed on his cheek, and the trigger finger of his right hand was red and swollen.

  He tried, with pitiful ineffectiveness, to straighten his disordered silver-grey hair. He walked slowly across the room.

  "That's right," breathed Peter Querrin.

  Lawrence shifted position.

  Peter jerked the gun.

  "I said—don't move!"

  Algy felt the body beneath him squirm. A voice squeezed, painfully:

  "Make him—let me go… "

  Querrin's mouth trembled.

  He muttered:

  "No. I don't trust you." His voice altered pitch. "You gave me away."

  Lawrence stared at him, coolly. Then, with calm and lazy movements, he stood up and released his prisoner.

  Peter's features contorted angrily.

  "You swine! Do you want me to shoot?"

  Algy Lawrence said mildly:

  "You won't kill me, Peter. You haven't the guts."

  The speech had the flick of contempt.

  Querrin flushed. His crooked finger trembled against the trigger.

  Lawrence leaned one hip against the table.

  He said, conversationally:

  "You'll always need another"—his glance went sideways and down—"to do your dirty work. And this time, Peter, you have no hired assassin."

  He relaxed, and closed his eyes.

  "Tell me, Peter. When did you decide"—he paused— "that your brother had to die?"

  Something rasped in Querrin's throat.

  He said:

  "Give me that confession."

  The papers were still clutched in Craig's hand. He had retrieved them when picking himself up from the floor.

  Lawrence leaned over and wrenched them from his grasp.

  Querrin's eyes went blank and deadly.

  He whispered:

  "Give me those papers."

  Lawrence shook his head.

  He said:

  "You'll have to kill for them, Peter. There's no easy way."

  "Shoot!"

  The hoarse voice startled them both.

  Querrin's accomplice struggled up, then sank back with a cry of pain, rubbing an injured leg.

  Lawrence grinned without humour.

  "That's good advice. Take it."

  "I don't want to kill you—."

  "But you'll have to kill me, Peter. You'll have to kill us all."

  Querrin seemed on the verge of angry tears.

  "Damn you!"

  Lawrence shrugged.

  "You're no gambler, Peter. And the stakes are a little too high. You should have stopped and considered before you plotted Roger's death."

  Querrin's face had crumpled.

  He whispered:

  "I didn't want him to die." His tone was thin with hysteria. "It was this room—this room, I tell you. There's evil here… I hate you, old Tom Querrin! You made me do it all."

  Lawrence said brutally:

  "You're crazy."

  Querrin's nostrils pinched.

  He breathed:

  "That night—when I told them the story—Audrey and Roger, here together, I felt evil seep into me... I saw— how easy it would be—."

  "To murder your brother, and inherit his fortune."

  Peter jerked back like a man from a whip lash.

  He cried:

  "It was his own fault! Audrey and I—we pleaded with him… He wouldn't change his mind. He insisted on keeping—his appointment… He wouldn't remove —the temptation."

  Lawrence said:

  "You hadn't the nerve to kill him yourself. So you called on—."

  He gestured wordlessly.

  Querrin's mouth hardened.

  "You know, then?"

  "Oh, yes." Lawrence was casual. "I knew within eighteen hours of Roger's death." He laughed. "You didn't believe that fairy story I spun upstairs?"

  He grinned at Russell Craig. "Sorry, sir. I've been blackening your character dreadfully."

  "Shut up, damn you." Querrin's face was white. "I've nothing to lose. I shall hang anyway, whether I kill you or not."

  "You fool." His accomplice was bitter and scornful. "Get that confession, and don't waste time. It's enough to hang us both."

  Querrin snarled.

  "You signed it, blast your eyes."

  "I hadn't any choice."

  Lawrence smiled gently.

  He said:

  "You may as well give yourselves up."

  Peter's mouth thinned.

  "Give me those papers."

  "Take them, you fool." His confederate cried out with rage and pain. "If I could only get up—aaah! My leg…."

  "I'm sorry," said Lawrence, with an odd but genuine concern. "But you shouldn't have struggled. You crippled yourself."

  Querrin shouted:

  "Be quiet!"

  The pistol shook wildly in his hand.

  He backed towards the window.

  His accomplice gasped madly:

  "You poor fool! Don't give up now. Keep your head. Shoot him—get the papers—come back!"

  Querrin seemed to shrink.

  Lawrence said:

  "It's no use. Querrin can't kill in cold blood."

  He thought, with gratitude:

  "I've won. Thank God."

  Peter whispered:

  "I have—to get away."

  Lawrence said nothing, and Craig kept silent, but there was another and vicious reply.

  "They'll hang you, Querrin."

  "What?"

  "You can't get away like this, leaving all the evidence. . . . They'll find you and they'll hang you. They'll come into your cell one morning, and bind your arms, and stand you on the trap—."

  "You—."

  Peter's voice was a shriek. He ran forward blindly, and lashed his tormentor's cheek with the muzzle of the gun.

  "Stop that!"

  Lawrence sprang towards him and grabbed his arm.

  Querrin, with desperate strength, hurled him back.

  He crouched like an animal.

  Lawrence, sprawled back across the table, saw death in Peter's eyes.

  His finger tightened on the trigger….

  A new voice ordered:

  "Drop that pistol."

  Querrin's eyes lost focus.

  Then he turned his head slowly, and stared at the uniformed man who had stepped in through the windows.

  The policeman was holding a revolver.

  Lawrence said quietly:

  "I'm glad you arrived, Inspector."

  Nobody moved.

  A tear ran down Peter's cheek.

  Then he twisted the gun in his hand, and they heard the sound as the muzzle smashed against his teeth.

  Then his finger jerked hard on the trigger, and the shot blasted cruelly through the silence.

  For one horrible second, Peter Querrin stood upright, his face a distortion in pulp and blood.

  Then he crashed on the floor like a broken doll.

  Lawrence straightened slowly.

  He looked down with compassion.

  He said:

  "It's over now."

  "Not quite," returned Hazlitt grimly. He stepped back to the heavy, shrouding curtain, and pushed it aside. Daylight flooded the room once more, driving out the shadows.

  The Inspector called:

  "Sergeant, call Doctor Tyssen. Then"—his gaze flicked back over his shoulder—"make arrangements. We have a prisoner."

  He walked back, skirting the dead man with distaste.

  He said:

  "I have a warrant—."

  Peter's accomplice said wearily:

  "Let's skip the formalities. I want a word with Mr. Lawrence." />
  Hazlitt hesitated.

  Lawrence nodded. "There's no more danger."

  "Very well." The Inspector thrust the revolver in the young man's hands. "Take this."

  He went out. Craig followed, a handkerchief over his mouth.

  Lawrence asked:

  "Does the leg still pain you?"

  "No." The other said abruptly:

  "Give me a smoke."

  "Surely." Lawrence opened his case, and eased a cigarette between the other's lips. The revolver he slipped, carelessly enough, into the pocket of his coat.

  His companion inquired:

  "You aren't afraid I'll try to grab the gun?"

  "No. You can't escape with the police outside. And you're not thinking of suicide."

  "That's right." The conflict resolved, the two had dropped back to their old relationship. "I'm not such a fool as Querrin."

  There was a moment of silence, then—.

  "You haven't beaten me yet."

  Lawrence shrugged. "I have your confession."

  "Forced," said the other triumphantly. "I shall deny everything. I won't go down without a struggle."

  Lawrence lifted one shoulder.

  "Let's not wrangle. You'll have a fair trial. The rest is up to the jury."

  "And the hangman." The other laughed bitterly. "What's the use. I'm too honest to fool myself. And Peter's left me to face things alone."

  Lawrence asked, suddenly:

  "Why did you do it?"

  "Who can say? I was bored, and frustrated… I've never shirked—a calculated risk. And you said yourself, the stakes were high. It was a gamble, that's all. It might have paid me well."

  Lawrence said softly:

  "I'm sorry."

  He looked curiously at the man for whom he still had a genuine liking.

  "You needn't be," replied the other. "I challenged you, in effect, when I murdered Querrin and Turner. You were too clever for me. I've no grudge against you."

  He grinned, briefly.

  "Though I admit it's humiliating—."

  He paused, then—.

  "To be beaten by a damned amateur," finished Sergeant Hardinge.

  10

  "Peter Querrin," said Lawrence slowly, "wasn't a very efficient criminal. And he wasn't a good actor. You and I,"—he stared at the burly man opposite—"both knew he was nervous, tense, and scared."

  "Yes." Stephen Castle scowled. "His emotions were genuine. We misinterpreted them, that's all."

  His voice was bitter.

  Lawrence felt, once more, the stirring of an old anger. After a moment's hesitation, he remarked sanely:

  "We can't blame ourselves now. We were fooled, yes. But we couldn't know that by guarding Roger we were exposing him to danger."

  The Chief Inspector seemed tired.

  He said:

  "You'd better explain from the beginning."

  Lawrence nodded. The two men were sitting in the library. The young man swept his hands over his smooth blond hair and began.

  "Peter was weak, and entirely dependent on his brother. He must have resented Roger's wealth and authority for a long time."

  Steve commented:

  "Roger was my friend, but he could be arrogant and overbearing. He wasn't an easy man to understand."

  Lawrence went on:

  "When his brother decided to marry, Peter saw a fortune going out of his reach. He might even have lost his home, since newly weds usually," Algy chuckled, "prefer to be alone.

  "However, he didn't think of murder till Roger advanced his crazy plan of keeping the Querrins' traditional appointment. To do Peter justice, I'll admit he tried to dissuade his brother—he was scared of his own capacity for evil.

  "Roger was obstinate, and Peter couldn't resist the temptation. He made up his mind that his brother had to die.

  "He knew Roger had made no will, so the wealth would pass to him. That money was Hardinge's bait."

  Algy was careful to avoid his old friend's eyes.

  He continued:

  We shall never know their exact relationship. It's safe to say Hardinge and Peter were fairly intimate. They must have known each other's characters."

  Castle shrugged. "We can investigate. Not that it matters now."

  Lawrence mused:

  "The Sergeant knew Roger hardly at all. Their first informal meeting was on the night Hardinge came to kill."

  Castle swore. His professional pride was hurt.

  Lawrence said mildly: "Policemen are human beings, with human faults and vices. The Sergeant was bored and frustrated, with a dead end job in a tiny village. He had few hopes of promotion and no way of making money.

  "When Peter suggested his crazy scheme—timidly enough, I imagine—John Hardinge seized his opportunity. From that moment, the Sergeant took charge. Young Querrin was only the pawn. There was no fear of a double cross. Hardinge was the stronger man. He knew that once Roger was dead, he could force from Peter as big a share of the Querrin fortune as he wished.

  "He began to make plans. The first essential was to provide Peter with an unbreakable alibi.

  "That's where you came in, Steve. You arrived here for a holiday, and they tagged you the perfect witness.

  "Peter, plagued with doubts and indecision, yet determined to see things through to the bitter end, told you his colourful ghost story. You agreed to help, and what's more"—Algy grinned slightly—"Querrin managed to persuade you it was your own idea to call in Sergeant Hardinge."

  Castle looked glum.

  Lawrence smiled at him gently, and went on:

  "They jockeyed you into position. In all good faith, you agreed to stand guard with Peter—at the end of the passage—while the Sergeant waited outside in the gardens.

  "That was a necessity. The whole illusion was to depend on it.

  "Right! Everything was settled, and then suddenly you were recalled to the Yard.

  "That nearly wrecked their plans. The whole scheme required an irreproachable witness to swear to Peter's alibi. Querrin was, after all, the obvious suspect. They had to establish his innocence.

  "You dropped out. They looked round for a substitute. In all innocence, you told Peter to call on me."

  Algy's eyes had lost their kindness.

  "I was his last hope. Truly, his brother's life depended on my answer.

  "If I refused to go with Peter, he would have to abandon his plans. ... I had only to stay in London."

  He smacked his hands together angrily.

  "But for me, Roger would still be alive."

  Castle's mouth twisted.

  He said:

  "I made you go. I'm sorry."

  Lawrence lifted one shoulder.

  "I fell into the trap, as you did. Querrin couldn't hide his feelings. He was near collapse, through fright and worry… But it wasn't concern for his brother. It was fear of the hangman."

  Even as he spoke, Algy realized that Peter had also been scared he would lose his only opportunity to bring about his brother's death.

  He shivered, with sick reproach.

  He said abruptly:

  "I don't like to think of the dark conflicts in Querrin's mind. Let's say he fooled us, and leave it at that.

  "I went with him to Bristley.

  "As you had done before me, I smelled both security and danger. So, with relief, he handed me over to his accomplice.

  "Hardinge was a very different man. He was cool and efficient. He was also, though I didn't know it then, completely ruthless."

  Lawrence grinned. "Oddly enough, I liked him on sight. I still do, come to think of it."

  He rubbed his cheek. "The Sergeant was a man without passion. The elder Querrin was to him no more than a cipher—an obstacle to be removed."

  He went on quickly:

  "Hardinge eased me gently into position. I had no suspicion—."

  "Don't blame yourself for that," grunted the Chief Inspector. "He fooled me too. He had already persuaded me to stand guard inside the house. You
simply took my place."

  "Even so, I could still have wrecked their schemes, merely by altering the existing arrangements. But"— his face was grim—"I didn't. And Peter tricked me again.

  "I let him help me test the window in the passage. He grabbed the opportunity of upturning an old wooden box directly beneath the sill."

  Steve looked puzzled. Lawrence said:

  "I'll explain later. That box had to be in position. Unwittingly, I gave him the chance of averting all suspicion."

  "It was unlikely," supplied Steve, "that the police would ask questions about it anyway."

  "So they believed." Lawrence closed his eyes. "Let's digress for a moment.

  "I don't suppose they intended to direct my attention towards old Simon. But I rattled Peter in the train, and he decided the story of Turner's dismissal would serve as a useful red herring.

  "Old Simon had, in fact, been prowling round Querrin House all day. He was the only man who believed in the ghost story—and he wanted to see Roger come to grief.

  "Hardinge was puzzled when he heard I had been attacked, but judged the prowler would be too scared to return. That was a bad miscalculation.

  "However, he had other things on his mind. He was wondering if Peter would lose his nerve. That could mean disaster for them both. Querrin's part in the murder was small enough, but it was vital—as you'll see.

  "Peter nearly cracked up when Uncle Russ got drunk and tried to join the guard. That might have spoilt everything. Still, that crisis passed, and—."

  Lawrence broke off and chuckled grimly.

  "And Hardinge actually told Peter, in my presence, that he didn't have to go through with the killing if he wanted to cry off."

  "What!"

  "In guarded language. But that's what he meant. Querrin replied: ‘I can do everything I have to,' and the die was cast.

  "Well, now. Roger obviously would have no suspicion of the men who'd been set to guard him.

  "It was raining heavily. Soon after the elder Querrin had been left alone Hardinge left his post on the path and crossed over the flower beds, back to the house. The rain washed out his footprints once more.

  "Standing on the steps, he tapped lightly on the glass panes. Roger was surprised, but he had no reason to be suspicious. He pulled back the curtains, saw who it was, and opened the french windows.

  "The Sergeant, I imagine, had taken off his cape and left it under the trees. He had removed his goloshes after crossing the wet soil, so he brought no mud into the room from the gardens.

  "He made some excuse to Querrin, and put the rubbers by the fire to dry.