The Case of the Seven Whistlers

by George Bellairs

  The platforms were closed ones. Anyone joining a train had to show a ticket to the man at the barrier.

  Mr. Fludd was not on duty and his assistant, a pleasant, red-faced man with a flower in his buttonhole and a dandified way of dressing, including a pair of kid gloves which he carried in his hand, was very helpful. He was called Mr. Gladstone and kept humming nervously when he was not talking. He was in the chapel choir and they were shortly giving Haydn’s Creation. He couldn’t get The Heavens are Telling out of his head.

  “Yes. I recollect Charlie Traviss was on duty at the barrier that night. He’s there again now, so we’ll be able to find out just what happened.…”

  Slapping his thighs with his gloves, Mr. Gladstone led his visitor to the barrier of platforms 1 and 2.

  The loudspeakers were announcing the next train to Birmingham. About twenty stops, and the announcer recited them all until he was out of breath. He shouted them so loudly that the trumpets almost fell from their moorings with the vibration. Nobody seemed to heed his messages, for you could see people asking the porters what time the next train went for Birmingham or intermediate stations.

  Mr. Traviss at the barrier was a very bad-tempered man. He regarded everyone who passed his watching-post as an antagonist anxious to dodge on a train without showing a ticket, and insisted on scrutinising and clipping every one. Queues mounted up like water at a dam on his side of the barrier as he did his duty by his employers.

  Mr. Traviss seemed happy to close his little gate and force his would-be clients to surge upon his colleague at the second barrier.

  “Yes,” he told Littlejohn, “Mr. Grossman passed through my barrier on his way when he met his death.”

  He clashed his ticket punch as though challenging Littlejohn to get past if he could without a ticket of some sort.

  “Did Mrs. Doakes come on with him?”

  “No. I was on the job by myself and she’d not have got past without me seeing ’er. I’d have remembered. Good memory, I have.…”

  A man with a suit-case as big as himself tried to get past Littlejohn to the platform and was loudly and angrily warned off by Traviss.

  “This is closed. Go to the other side. Carn’t you see?”

  “Did you see Miss Curwen on the earlier train?”

  “Yes. Clipped her first-class ticket. That’s right. I don’t forget these things. My job not to do.…”

  Littlejohn couldn’t see much claim to virtue in it, but let it pass.

  “I’d just like a look along the platform, then …”

  Mr. Gladstone waved his gloves airily at Traviss, who opened his gate with reluctance and let them through. A mob of returning holidaymakers tried to follow, and Mr. Traviss set about them, put them in their places and started to clip their tickets meticulously. You could hear his bullying voice all along the platform.

  Littlejohn, directed by the deputy-stationmaster, walked along the London platform, and whilst Mr. Gladstone got on with his Heavens are Telling, now whistling it, now crying it aloud in a muffled tenor, sized-up the situation.

  Beyond where the trains and engines stood was a goods-yard, with sheds and cattle-pens. From the pens ran a cemented track to a gate, which in turn gave on to the main road. Evidently drovers were in the habit of using this for livestock brought in by goods train. The gate was made of metal bars and could easily be climbed. Anybody agile enough and careful to keep out of sight could sneak along the track to the far side of the train standing at the London platform and get aboard without being seen.

  But the guard had checked tickets just after the train started. What about that?

  Littlejohn interrupted the oratorio to ask Mr. Gladstone about it.

  “Let’s go to the ticket office, Inspector. Perhaps they’ll be able to help.”

  The booking-clerk had a long queue at his peep-hole, but he was glad to close down the shutter and keep them all waiting a bit longer. If they didn’t get the next train they could catch the one after that!

  He wore a tattered office jacket with pins sticking from the lapels, and was tall, emaciated and weak at the knees, as though worn out from ceaseless contention with travellers. He had two other colleagues and they all swore, one by one, that Mrs. Doakes hadn’t been near the ticket-office for months. Yes, they all knew her. She was well-known in the town. One of the clerks sniggered suggestively and for the first time Mr. Gladstone looked annoyed and stopped smiling and humming.

  “Let’s try the goods depôt and enquire about the box,” said Littlejohn, and Mr. Gladstone cheerfully assented and led him off to offices on the far side of the station.

  The place was a hive of industry. Boxes, crates, sacks and suitcases all over the shop and men hauling them here and there without any apparent plan of action. Two stocky little chaps were throwing parcels marked “Fragile” from one end of the room to the other as though anxious to test the veracity of the statement on the red labels.

  The chief clerk was singled out by Mr. Gladstone, who was now whistling something about the fowls of the air and the fish of the sea, and left with Littlejohn whilst the stationmaster dealt with his livestock.

  The clerk looked tired out, and his black alpaca jacket and dark, shiny trousers accentuated the pallor of his sad face.

  “Yes, I remember the trunk. Quite a sensation it’s caused, hasn’t it? But we’d nothin’ to do with that here. Just passed through our hands in the normal course.”

  “It was a box, not a trunk.”

  “Oh, yes. We get so many. I forgot. I do recollect it was a bit delayed in being sent. Should have gone on the passenger train before Mr. Grossman’s, but there was a bit of a hitch.”

  “Why passenger train?”

  “Better than goods for delicate stuff. Not so much goes by passenger and it doesn’t get hanging about so long. And not handled as much.…”

  You could hardly hear yourself speak for noise. Men shouting and men tabulating stuff.

  “Four cases Birmingham; three cases Willesden Junction; six Norwich; five Newcastle …”

  And Mr. Gladstone waiting amiably for Littlejohn, beating time with his gloves and singing sotto voce about flocks and herds.

  “And now about the hitch, you said occurred. What was that?”

  The clerk pulled a cigarette twisted like a question-mark from his pocket, straightened it, lit it at a gas light, and puffed the smoke in Littlejohn’s face.

  “Sorry,” he said, beating the air before the Inspector’s nose. “The box came and should have gone by the London train before the one Grossman was on. But just before it was loaded the insurance company ’phoned to ask us to leave it a bit. They were settling some point about the insurance.…”

  “Which company was it?”

  “Travellers’ and Traders’.”

  “May I use your ’phone, please?”

  The Travellers’ and Traders’ agent told Littlejohn that Mrs. Doakes had called on him to arrange about insurance of the box and had squabbled about the premium.

  “It was something and nothing,” he said, “but she kicked up a lot of fuss. A proper bitch of a woman, if you ask me.”

  “Indeed!” said Littlejohn in his nastiest tone. He thought of his own bitch at home, fretting and off her food when he was away, and objected to the word as an epithet. “I don’t want Mrs. Doakes’s character, thanks.”

  “No offence, I’m sure, sir. Well, Mrs. Doakes asked me to tell the railway to hold up the box till she’d seen Mr. Small about the premium, which I did. It went by the 7.45 instead of the 5.2. Later she paid up and no more fuss.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye.”

  “Wait a bit … Is there goin’ to be a claim? I hope not.”

  “No claim, thank you.”

  Someone announced cups of tea were ready and the place emptied. A great silence prevailed. A man flung down a case marked “Handle with Care” with a resounding crash and went off for refreshment, and Mr. Gladstone looked enquiringly at Littlejohn, mutely asking if he’d
had enough.

  Littlejohn nodded, thanked Mr. Gladstone, who flicked his gloves to indicate that it was no trouble at all. They said goodbye, the stationmaster patted his flower, slapped himself with his gloves again and went off whistling something about creeping things.

  In the distance, the red beard of Mr. Fludd could be seen coming on duty. Littlejohn turned down a side-street to avoid it and made for the police station. He was feeling happier, for whilst the facts were still a bit confused, things were beginning to take shape.

  16

  THE ROOM ABOVE THE SHOP

  IT was seven in the evening. Littlejohn was sitting in Gillespie’s room at the police station waiting for his colleague. In the absence of his wife, Gillespie, freed from domestic routine, seemed to be wandering here, there and everywhere.

  The room was very depressing and the outlook on to the grim stone church with its dreary graveyard was even worse. The office was dismally furnished with an old desk, three wooden chairs, two new filing cabinets and a cracked washbowl in one corner. They had long intended building a new place, but the war had held things up.

  The church tower opposite took away a lot of the light and on all but sunny days the desk lamps had to be on. These were tiring to the eyes in spite of their green shades.

  Littlejohn had been jotting down one or two notes on a piece of scrap paper.

  Mrs. Doakes boards London train after sneaking from cinema without being seen by anybody.

  Hides on 7.45 and attacks Grossman; conceals body in chest; returns by changing trains at Stainford; hides in ladies’ room of cinema whilst attendant is changing “stills”. Then, emerges from ladies’ room when show ends, mixes with crowd and takes care to greet attendant to establish alibi of sorts.

  Where did she hide on train, as nobody seems to have seen her about and she didn’t encounter the guard? And why all the fuss about getting the box on the same train as Grossman?

  She hid in the box, of course. She had been responsible for stitching it in the canvas. A few twists of the needle, easily undone, would be enough. Then the chest could be used for concealing the body long enough to give her breathing space.

  Littlejohn read through his notes again, laid down his pencil and yawned.

  What a case! And all his notes were pure surmise. The woman might not have left the cinema at all. However, the doorkeeper had seen her putting into action the trick Littlejohn had imagined, on the night Barbara Curwen died. So that added strength to his theories.

  The woman had certainly used her head in the crime and kept herself well concealed and planned it very precisely. None of the station officials had seen her about the place when Grossman was in the train.

  The fatal box was still at the police station. Littlejohn went and examined it again. What wouldn’t he have given for one of the classical clues! A thread from a coloured dress or jumper, an imprint on the bottom of a pair of number 7 shoes, or a distinctive sole, a fingerprint or a thread of golden hair!

  There was nothing. Mrs. Hollis, in her anxiety to get the smell of death, as she called it, out of the box, had made a thorough job of cleaning it up.

  Littlejohn put on his spectacles again and resumed his writing.

  Motive?

  There was something there to work on. He wrote down:

  Grossman seems to have bought, in his capacity as fence, the proceeds—mostly diamonds—of the Coatcliffe burglary from Birdie Jameson. Had Mrs. Doakes got wind that the jewels were in his possession and attacked and relieved Grossman of them on his way to London to dispose of them?

  And did Barbara Curwen know of the jewellery, and had she tackled Mrs. Doakes and accused her of murder?

  Littlejohn yawned again. The case was boring him. The number of dead-ends was becoming exasperating. He must make a bold move or he looked like being at it for ever.

  The door opened and Gillespie entered. He was in uniform and looked tired out.

  “Hullo, Littlejohn. I’ve just been trailing round trying to find out anything interesting from Barbara Curwen’s friends. No good.”

  Littlejohn took another chair, and as Gillespie sat down at his desk, pushed across to him the notes he had been making.

  Gillespie read through them, his brow wrinkled and his fingers drumming on the desk.

  “You seem to have fastened on Mrs. Doakes. But as far as I can see we’ve no excuse for questioning her further, let alone definitely accusing her.”

  “No. I was just thinking, when you came in, I must make a bold step. There’s only one thing to do. Search Mrs. Doakes’s room at the shop.”

  “Search warrant?”

  “Not on your life. That would defeat our purpose. So far, our enquiries about her have been very discreet and general. If we spring the trap too soon she may get startled and get out of it. No, I’m going to make an illegal search.”

  Gillespie jumped, and looked startled.

  “Not breaking-in?”

  “Exactly. We may find the missing key, or something else that will clinch the matter. We can’t go on like this for ever.”

  “Yes, but think of the risk. If we’re found out it’ll break us.”

  “Not you, Gillespie. This is my affair. All the help I want from you is your silence about it and for you to order the policeman on patrol on the quayside to telephone me when Small and Mrs. Doakes are out later this evening.”

  “All very irregular. Still, I’m between the devil and the deep sea. The Chief Constable’s in a rare tear about the case. Very well. Do as you wish.…”

  At nine o’clock that night the constable on the quay reported that The Seven Whistlers was deserted.

  The property on the hill had once been substantial residences and there were still neglected back-gardens behind the shops. The Inspector, unaccompanied, entered the premises from this direction. He made short work of the lock on the back door and was soon inside.

  There was a gas-lamp right in front of the shop and this shining through the bottle-glass threw an aqueous green light over everything inside. The antique furniture stood in solid dark masses, with the old glass shining almost as though illuminated from within in some way. Little figures of Dresden shepherds and shepherdesses danced in the moonlight and the Toby jugs grinned down grimly and the pot dogs watched like things on guard.

  Three grandfather clocks ticked a sort of trio and one struck three although it was not that time at all.

  Littlejohn cautiously climbed the creaking stairs. There were three doors on the landing. The first he opened proved to be a storeroom; the second was obviously Small’s. The bed had not been made, the bedclothes were littered about in tangled heaps and the air was still fuggy as though the occupant had only just left it after spending a night there with the window closed.

  Mrs. Doakes’s room overlooked the steep street and was over the shop. It was of the bed-sitting-room variety, with a few choice pieces of furniture acquired in the course of trade. Heavy mahogany bed and wardrobe, with dressing-chest and wash-stand to match. The bed had been made this time and the place was tolerably tidy. The lamp outside illuminated the room, but Littlejohn used his shaded torch to see in the corners.

  The search was disappointing. Not a letter; not a photograph, except one of Doakes himself; or presumably it was Doakes, for he wore officer’s uniform. Not a trace of money or weapons. In short, nothing connected with the crime.

  Littlejohn carefully went through drawers, wardrobe and cupboards. He gently examined the bed and mattress. No loose floorboards. Apparently no secret hiding places.

  Disgusted, the Inspector prepared to leave and try some other idea. He switched off his torch and stood at the window looking down at the empty street. It was very quiet. Not a soul about. In the distance you could hear the hum of the town and the noises of the boats at the quay loading and unloading. Cranes still working and men shouting.…

  There was a soiled raincoat on the back of the door. Littlejohn had searched the pockets of all the garments in the place exc
ept this one. He eyed it without interest, but instinctively ran his fingers over it.

  A half-empty packet of cigarettes, a bit of lipstick, some halves of picture-house tickets. Then, screwed up in the corner of one pocket, a receipt for a registered packet. The date of the receipt was the day after the crime!

  Mr. John Doakes, c/o G.P.O., Liverpool.

  Probably sending money to the port for her husband before he arrived or embarked.

  Or …

  Littlejohn was startled from his glow of satisfaction by the sudden ringing of a bell. Someone was entering the shop by the front door! And with assurance, for whoever it was didn’t mind the bell jangling.…

  It must be either Small or Mrs. Doakes.

  The heavy steps crossed the shop and made straight for the staircase. Littlejohn looked at the window of the room. Large frames which didn’t open and small panes at the top, one of which had a hinged part, for ventilation. No way out there.

  He was properly trapped and would have to make the best of it.

  Almost before the Inspector had time to place himself behind the door, the handle turned. Small, in raincoat and cloth cap, entered. He wasn’t drunk this time and evidently had an end in view. He, too, was going to search Mrs. Doakes’s room.

  Fortunately, Small, in his haste, didn’t bother to close the door, and Littlejohn stood concealed by it, hardly daring to breathe.

  It was amusing to see the huge, heavy-breathing man trying to be gentle in his search so that Mrs. Doakes wouldn’t find out someone had been there. He seemed all fingers and thumbs, and grunted and talked to himself as he concentrated on the job in hand. An odour of whisky began to fill the room.

  Outside, the heavy tread of the constable on patrol sounded in the street. Small paused, went to the window and watched him pass from behind the curtains.

  Littlejohn swore to himself. Why didn’t the fellow try the door, as probably he did on every other night whenever he passed? That would perhaps be unlocked and take Small down to explain. But no. The bobby tramped on, quite oblivious of the trouble brewing right overhead.