The Case of the Seven Whistlers

by George Bellairs

  What was Small after? Was it the diamonds? Or the second key? Or even proof that Mrs. Doakes was somehow involved in the death of his late partner?

  Small was getting mad. The fruitless search was tiring his patience and he began to chuck things about in drawers and cupboards, and then, recollecting what he was doing, had to set about tidying them again.

  Having finished with the cupboards and drawers, the fat man started on the wardrobe. He merely ran his hands down the garments. He must have been after something bulky.

  Then he started on the furniture. Tapping, twisting, pressing it here and there with his fingers. Evidently hunting for secret receptacles. And when he found none, he set about the bed in a very evil humour. You could see he wanted to throw the bedding about and slit the mattress, but daren’t.…

  Finally, Small drew back, breathing heavily, and pushed his cap on the back of his head.

  “Where the hell are they?” he asked himself.

  So, he was probably after the diamonds, too.

  Suddenly, Small seemed to decide to give it up as a bad job and left the room and closed the door without even looking behind it. Littlejohn heard him stump down the stairs and go in the living-quarters behind the shop.

  Then, Mrs. Doakes turned up. She mustn’t have been to the pictures. The shop doorbell jangled again and you could hear her asking Small what had brought him home so early.

  From where he was, with the door ajar, Littlejohn could hear Small saying he hadn’t been feeling well and had come home to make himself some tea and get to bed.

  The Inspector wondered which room was the safer. Mrs. Doakes might come up to powder her nose or something. She didn’t look like one who went early to bed and had called to titivate herself for another appointment of some kind. Probably an amorous one!

  Littlejohn decided to chance it, and softly moved across to the lumber-room.

  Voices were raised.

  Small, enraged by his futile search, was evidently furious. And more furious still at the early return of his niece.

  “What have you done with them sparklers that Grossman had?”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “You know what I’m babblin’ about. Birdie Jameson’s been pinched for the Coatcliffe robbery. An’ you know as well as I do that Grossie always took his stuff.… Where are they?”

  “I know nothing about any diamonds.”

  “Oh yes, you do. You know as well as I do that Grossie had them sparklers when he went for the London train. Or if you don’t, yer a bigger mutt than I thought yer. What had he to go to London for at this time o’ year? No sales, and the end of season.”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “Don’t come that over me. I bet you was after them diamonds like a cat after cream. Where was you when Grossie caught his packet?”

  “At the pictures. I’ve got a proper alibi there, and the police took it proper, too.”

  “Tell it to the marines.…”

  Then they started a regular round of abuse. Littlejohn had never heard a woman with such a vocabulary of foulness as Mrs. Doakes when she was roused. Small lost every round. In the end, he gave it up.

  “And now I’m going out again.…”

  Mrs. Doakes ran upstairs and into her room. She was on the landing in less than a minute.

  “Hey! Have you been in my room?”

  Small sounded astonished and outraged.

  “No. Why?”

  “You have, you lyin’ swine. Somebody’s bin through the drawers, I’m sure o’ that, and the bed’s not like when I left it. You dirty …”

  “That’ll do. I’m not so well and I’ve ’ad about enough o’ you, see? Any more and I’ll put you in bed for a week. I’m doin’ no more talking. Fists is what I’ll use.”

  “I’d like to see you touch me.…”

  She was evidently in a hurry and ran downstairs, yelling abuse all the way.

  “Not that I’ve anythin’ I want to hide in my room. But my room’s mine, and private, see, and I won’t ’ave you messin’ round there, puttin’ yer dirty maulers all over my things.… What are you after, anyhow?”

  “I tell yer I haven’t been there.”

  “Liar!”

  It sounded like starting all over again. But instead, Mrs. Doakes hurried out and the jangle of the shop-bell speeded her on her way.

  Littlejohn was fed up. It looked as if he’d have to wait for Small either to go out again or retire to his room, before he could bolt.

  Matters came to a climax quicker than Littlejohn expected. Small remained quiet for a time and then ascended the stairs again. And he went into Mrs. Doakes’s room and gave it another good searching! The fellow was certainly persistent. Littlejohn stood listening behind the lumber-room door, holding on to some old clothes hanging on the back of it and wondering if he was going to be there all night.

  Swearing to himself, Small finally let himself out of the woman’s room, but instead of going to his own, opened that in which Littlejohn was hiding. And he began to fumble for the switch.…

  Littlejohn had had quite enough. Quickly, he whipped one of the coats down from behind the door and, flinging it over Small’s head, neatly tripped him and pitched him among a heap of junk lying nearby. Then he flew down the stairs and out by the front door as fast as his legs would take him.

  He tidied himself up on the way back to the police station and entered Gillespie’s room with his precious post-office receipt.

  Gillespie grinned at him.

  “Hullo! So you’re safely back, eh? Thought we’d lost you for good. I’ve just had a ’phone call from The Seven Whistlers. Seems they’ve had burglars and one of ’em attacked Small. Like to go down and see what it’s all about?”

  “No, thanks,” said Littlejohn.

  And the Superintendent burst into roars of loud laughter.

  17

  THE “MAID OF MORVEN”

  LITTLEJOHN decided to go to Liverpool right away. He telephoned to the police there and they were not long in finding out who and where was John Doakes. He was second-officer on the Maid of Morven. She was still in the river, held up by the dockers’ strike. Otherwise, she’d have been half way to South America.

  The Inspector caught the 12.30 to Liverpool from Fetling and hoped to get some sleep in the train. He only dozed, however, for he had an uneasy impulse that somehow things weren’t turning out as he expected.

  Why, on this of all nights, had Small suddenly decided to return home from his usual evening’s drinking at the Bay Hotel at the precise time that he himself was searching the place? It seemed more than a coincidence.

  The case itself had been a slow one and full of surprising twists, and Littlejohn had an uncomfortable feeling that somehow he was even now on a fool’s errand.

  He was right!

  His theory had now developed to the extent of deducing that Mrs. Doakes had killed Grossman, perhaps by mistake, but killed him all the same. Then, she’d stolen the diamonds, and now, after receiving them by registered post, her husband was taking them to South America with him for disposal. A very pretty and handy scheme. A visit to Doakes unexpectedly might clear the whole thing up. Littlejohn vaguely felt it wouldn’t.

  Enquiries by the police in Fetling showed that John Doakes hadn’t put in an appearance in Fetling at all during the time his ship had been docked. Why had he kept away? Perhaps to keep himself from suspicion in connection with Grossman’s death, and perhaps to remain as far away as possible from the scene of the crime with the loot.

  Littlejohn kept turning it over and over in his mind on the way to Liverpool.

  There were three other men in the compartment. Two were drunk and on their way home from a football match. They were rowdy whilst awake and snored loudly when asleep. The third passenger fidgetted the whole of the time. Crossing and uncrossing his legs, easing his body in his seat and every time he moved agitating the whole of the side on which he and Littlejohn were sitting. And some vandal
had pulled away a part of the door-frame, which let in a smoke-scented draught. Finally, when his travelling companions were all asleep, Littlejohn couldn’t get off himself. His thoughts on the crime were very disturbing. He felt as though someone were leading him up the garden path, and try as he would to dismiss the ridiculous idea, he found it recurring over and over again.

  A police sergeant met Littlejohn at Liverpool in the small hours. They went straight down to the docks. They found Doakes was still ashore. The boat was due to sail on the morrow and a lot of the men had been having a final fling.

  Doakes returned at six o’clock, very much the worse for wear. He had slept off his drink somewhere but was in a vile temper. His clothes were crumpled, he hadn’t had a wash or a shave and his collar was soiled and all shapes.

  “What the hell do you two want?” he asked in what appeared to be righteous indignation. “It’s come to something when a chap’s disturbed by coppers at six in a morning and he hasn’t done anything.”

  “We’d like a word with you, Mr. Doakes, in connection with the death of Mr. Grossman, for whom your wife works in Fetling.”

  “You would, would you? And what have I to do with things in Fetling? Haven’t been there for six months.”

  “Why?”

  “What the hell’s that to do with you?”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head, Doakes. Your wife is closely connected with the crime, being in Grossman’s employ. We’re checking on every angle and you come into it as her husband. Where were you when the crime was committed?”

  Littlejohn gave him the time, date and such particulars as were needed in the matter.

  “Well, if you must know, I was in hospital. The day before the murder, I was superintending some deck operations and broke my thumb.…”

  He held up the offending member. It was still in plaster of Paris with a strong wire loop projecting from the end of the bandage.

  “… I had it X-rayed and they found I’d what they call a Bennett’s fracture. Whatever that may be.… They kept me in bed at the hospital for a couple of days while they got it set proper, and then I’d to report every day for treatment. Risk of the thumb shortening, they said, if it was mismanaged. You can check that with the General Hospital. They’ll tell you. So that let’s me out. And now I want some sleep.…”

  “Just a minute. It seems strange that you didn’t go over to see your wife all that time. You didn’t, did you?”

  “No. And it’s no flaming business of yours.”

  “Did she come to see you?”

  “No. Why should she? She gets on quite well without me and I get on very well without her.…”

  “All the same, you keep in touch—you write to one another, I mean?”

  “Oh, I send her a postcard now and then. Just to let her know I’m still alive and then she’ll not be getting married again to one or another of the blokes she has in tow. Wouldn’t do for her be gaoled for bigamy.…”

  “She wrote to you the day after the murder, though.”

  “Look here. I’m a patient man. But when I get mad I’ve a devil of a temper. I’ve not slept all night, and I’ve got an idea that my temper’s not at its best at this early hour. So, I’ll trouble you to clear off and let me get some sleep, else I’ll not be responsible for what I do.…”

  He was an ugly, thick-set, dark little man, with a crooked nose and thick lips. Considerably smaller than his wife, but very strong looking. He had carroty hair, too, and looked like being a tartar if roused.

  All the same, Littlejohn was determined to get the answer to the question he’d travelled all night to ask.

  “What was in the registered letter your wife sent you the day after the crime, Doakes?”

  “I’ve told you there was no letter.…”

  And Doakes turned on his heel and walked off.

  Littlejohn followed him and took him by the collar. There was nothing else for it.

  Doakes turned and lunged at Littlejohn. His fighting blood was suddenly up and he saw red. Littlejohn didn’t relax his grip on the collar, but drew the jacket half-way down Doakes’s back and pinned his arms with it. The sailor was handy with his feet, though, and kicked the police sergeant soundly in the shin. There was a free-for-all for a few minutes. Some deck-hands watched the scuffle but didn’t join in. They knew better.

  It ended by Doakes being frog-marched to a taxi and taken to the dock police station, where he was charged with obstructing the police.

  He was searched, much against his will. They found the registered packet in the pocket of a body-belt. It contained fifty pounds in notes! There was a letter with it.

  Dear Jack,

  I wish you’d stop pestering me every time you get in port. You know we don’t hit it and the sooner we end it the better. What you want a hundred pounds for, I don’t know. And as for saying if I don’t send it you’ll make it hot for me—well—do your worst. I don’t care.

  … For old times sake, I’m sending you fifty pounds. That’s final. Not another penny.…

  Doakes was discharged with a caution, and went off after telling Littlejohn he’d swing for him if ever their paths crossed again.

  Their paths crossed almost at once, but Doakes ignored Littlejohn, who had been interviewing the skipper of the Maid of Morven.

  “I wish you’d come to me first, instead of kicking up all that fuss. I could have told you everything about Doakes.”

  The captain was a lanky, rugged Scot, who didn’t smoke or drink and read his Bible a lot. He didn’t like rough-houses on his ship, though nobody aboard was handier with his fists when justly provoked.

  “Doakes is quite a decent chap, according to his lights. Once at sea, no captain could ask for a better officer. In port, he drinks too much, but there’s little wrong in him.”

  “He must spend a lot on drink, sir. He’s not only gone through his own pay, but sponges on his wife, with whom, from all accounts, he doesn’t get on well.”

  “He’s been unlucky matrimonially, that’s true. But, from what he tells me, that’s not his fault. His wife has always been off with other men as soon as he’s got to sea. Doakes himself is very decent where women are concerned. Never had anything with which to reproach him there. Two years ago, however, he took up with a girl in the dock canteen here, and when we got in port this time he found there was a baby. He did the right thing as far as he could. Set her up in a home of her own just outside the town and gave her money. And he’s going to marry her as soon as he can. He’s just filed papers for divorce against Mrs. Doakes. He promised me he’d marry the other girl. I’ll knock the living daylights out of him if he doesn’t. She happens to be my niece.…”

  Littlejohn got a bath and some breakfast and caught the nine o’clock back to Fetling. He felt very foolish and out of temper with himself, for he had made a fool’s errand. And he’d a vague feeling that someone was behind it.

  However, he fell asleep and slept most of the journey. When he awoke, he felt better, and made up his mind that somebody was going to sit-up for last night’s work. Who, he didn’t know. It was like fighting in the dark.…

  On his way to his hotel he called at The Seven Whistlers. The shop was open and Small and Mrs. Doakes were in it, although there were no customers.

  “You again!” said Small. But he didn’t look very comfortable. He seemed a bit more favourably disposed towards the police, to whom he looked to catch his burglars.

  Mrs. Doakes ignored Littlejohn and went on dusting some furniture.

  “I hear you’ve had burglars, Mr. Small? Did they take much?”

  “As far as I can see, not a thing. I must have scared ’em away. Got home sooner than usual last night, and they must have just been startin’. Whoever it was hid in the boxroom upstairs and when I went in coshed me good and proper with somethin’. I feel like nothin’ on earth this morning.”

  Littlejohn’s old good-humour returned. Small had evidently been figuring as an ill-treated hero. In his imagination the
old cloth in which Littlejohn had wrapped him had changed to a cosh or knuckle-duster!

  And Small had been liberally fortifying himself already. The place reeked of whisky.

  “So the thieves didn’t get anything?”

  “Ransacked the place for valuables. Turned Mrs. Doakes’s bedroom upside down, and you never saw such a mess as they left mine in.…”

  Well, well!

  “I suppose the police here have the matter in hand.”

  “Yes. But they’re a slow lot. They’ll never get who done it. Two men came down last night—Sergeant and a constable—but they seemed they didn’t know which end to start of. Said it was probably some local small-fry. Perhaps it was—I dunno. It’s upsettin’, though, when you can’t leave the place for an hour without it bein’ broke into. And a bobby supposed to be on the beat, too.”

  Mrs. Doakes snorted, but didn’t raise her head.

  “By the way, Mr. Small. You said you came home early. Why did you do that, last night of all nights?”

  “Funny thing, now. I’d been at the Bay Hotel for a bit when someone rang me up. About nine, it ’ud be. Didn’t say who they was, but just that they’d been passin’ my place and thought they saw somebody goin’ in by the back door. Thought they’d better let me know. So I come to see.”

  Mrs. Doakes rose and put her hands on her hips.

  “Thought you said you weren’t so well and that’s what brought you home.…”

  “Didn’t want to alarm you. Didn’t seem to be nobody about. ’ow was I to know they was hidin’ in the upstairs rooms?”

  “Didn’t want to alarm me, indeed …!”

  Mrs. Doakes resumed her polishing. The pair of them were half-dressed and unwashed again. They looked ready for a good row when the Inspector had left them. So he went.

  At the police-station he found Gillespie in a good humour, which clouded over when Littlejohn told of his night’s adventures. The Superintendent had looked a bit sheepish as the Inspector entered and caught him stitching a button on his pants.

  “Just had a bit of an accident, and the distaff-side, as you might call ’em, being away from home, I’m executing running repairs.…”