Whistle Up the Devil

by Derek Smith

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 1953 by John Gifford, Ltd.

  Copyright © 1953 Derek Howe Smith

  Reprinted by permission of Douglas G. Greene, Executor of the Literary Rights of Derek Howe Smith.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Smith, Derek Howe

  Whistle Up the Devil

  For information, contact: pugmire1@yahoo.com

  WHISTLE UP THE DEVIL

  A Detective Story

  Derek Howe Smith

  ROGER QUERRIN died alone in a locked and guarded room, beyond the reach of human hands. Algy Lawrence, with sleepy eyes and a lazy grin, refused to believe in ghosts. Yet with all his detailed knowledge of sealed room trickery, he could not explain the mystery of this "miracle" murder. And then, faced with a second crime which could not possibly have been committed, he began to wonder, at last, if somebody had conjured up an invisible demon who could blast out locks and walk through solid walls… Whistle up the Devil is an ingenious brain-teaser which plays completely fair with the reader.

  1

  "TELEPHONES," Algy told himself drowsily, "are the devil." He stretched out an arm from the blankets towards the black-enamelled receiver, stilled the persistent ringing, and yawned by way of greeting into the mouthpiece.

  The tinny voice said briskly:

  "Mr. Lawrence?"

  "Mmmm." Algy settled himself more comfortably against the pillows.

  "Chief Inspector Castle would like to speak to you."

  "Steve!" Algy jerked into wakefulness, knuckling the sleep from drowsy blue eyes as he waited to talk to his old friend at Scotland Yard. "Hallo…Steve?"

  "Hallo, Algy." The older man's baritone rang pleasantly over the line: cordial, yet with an odd trace of tension. "Where are you?"

  Lawrence pushed the tousled blond hair away from his forehead and chuckled.

  "In bed, of course. Where else, in the middle of the night?"

  Castle laughed. "I thought so, you lazy young hound. Well, it's nine in the morning. And time you were up."

  "Don't be tiresome, Steve." Algy yawned audibly. "Anyway," he added, remembering, "what are you doing in London? I thought you were on holiday in the country."

  "I was: at Querrin House." Again that odd note of tension. "But you know the Yard, Algy. They recalled me suddenly. I've a job for you."

  "I knew it" Lawrence groaned; but it was mainly pretence. Interest quickened his voice immediately. "Who's been murdered?"

  "Nobody…. Yet. "

  "Oh!" He hesitated. "Look, Steve. I don't think I'd be much good as a bodyguard."

  "No, but-—." The Inspector seemed to be finding it oddly hard to express himself. "Roger Querrin is a friend of mine. I wouldn't want to see him—that is, things are so indefinite—."

  "They certainly are," said Algy kindly. "Look, Steve, you may know what you're talking about, but I don't. What do you want me to do?"

  "Ah!" Castle drew in his breath with a vague sense of relief. "Well! Querrin's brother is here with me. Will you speak to him?"

  "If you like. Put him on."

  "No," said the Inspector, with decision. "I'd rather send him along to you."

  Algy sighed. "All right. But don't forget, you damned old slave driver, I'm only an unofficial detective, and if I don't feel like handling this blasted case of yours—."

  "You won't. I know." The ghost of amusement in Castle's voice suggested he had heard something very much like this before. "Just listen to young Querrin, that's all I ask." Then, more seriously: "He's worried, Algy. And so am I."

  The 'phone clicked and went dead. Lawrence slid the receiver back to its cradle, blinked at it thoughtfully, then pushed back the bed clothes and swung his long legs to the floor.

  He was a tall, slim, athletically-built young man in his middle twenties, fair-haired, pleasant faced, and straight shouldered. He was invariably good humoured, and despite the amiable vacancy of his expression there was the unmistakably steady gleam of a high intelligence at the back of his lazy blue eyes. But just now he looked merely sleepy.

  He kicked his feet into shabbily comfortable slippers and shrugged an old grey dressing-gown over sky-blue pyjamas. He went into the bathroom, twisted the taps for his morning bath, and shaved abstractedly in front of a steamy mirror. Then lounging in the water and soaping himself absently, he began to ponder over the Inspector's call.

  Did it mean another case?

  Lawrence shrugged his bare shoulders. It wouldn't be the first time he had taken a hand in such matters. Scotland Yard had a healthy respect for the young man's capabilities as a detective. "Unofficially, of course," as Castle would say, screwing up his eyes and rubbing his jowl; but the regard was real enough for all that.

  A short spell of Intelligence work in post-war Europe had sharpened Lawrence's appetite for detection. On leaving the Forces he had discovered himself, like a good many other idealistic and adventurous young men, a hopeless misfit in a shabby world. He had drifted aimlessly.

  Fortunately his parents, besides providing him with good health, a keen brain, and a romantic disposition, had left him an adequate private income.

  And he had a good friend in Chief Inspector Stephen Castle. The burly man, shrewdly divining the young man's deep sense of frustration, had directed Algy's talents and interests into suitable channels. Lawrence had quickly proved his worth.

  He was an amateur but he was also a specialist. He could never hope to handle routine work with the quiet excellence which is the hallmark of the professional; but he could tackle the bizarre and the fantastic with expert skill.

  So for two years he had drifted happily on the outskirts of crime, and if he had a deeper purpose than justifying his existence by assisting the police-—.

  As the Inspector said:

  "The results of his work are good enough."

  Lawrence had dressed and had breakfast before a sharp buzz announced the arrival of his would-be client. He grinned briefly at his own reflection in a mirror in the hallway and addressed himself gravely:

  "An uncomfortable heat at the pit of your stomach? A nasty thumping at the top of your head? I call that the detective fever."

  And with the words of Sergeant Cuff still lingering on his lips, he clattered down the stairs towards one of the weirdest adventures of his life.

  Peter Querrin walked slowly along the quiet street in Kensington with a hard line of worry cut deep at the corner of his mouth. He stopped suddenly, fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat for a cigarette, and lit it with faintly trembling fingers. Drawing the soothing smoke deep into his lungs he paced on without enthusiasm.

  The tension of the last few weeks had told on him badly, Castle's stay at Querrin House had given him a sense of security, though he knew well enough he would have no real rest till the whole fantastic business was over and done with; but now Castle was gone so unexpectedly... He stopped thinking.

  On that chill grey morning, while his footfall rang hard on the pavement and the wind scurried leaves in the gutter, it came to him now that his last hope was an unknown man named Lawrence.

  Castle had said as much an hour ago. "Peter, I'd like to help. But I can't now. This isn't a police matter," he hesitated, "yet." The tiny word had a nasty ring in the silent room, high over the Embankment. "But Lawrence is a good man and a
friend of mine. If you can persuade him to go-—."

  "I must," Querrin had replied with finality. But now as he stood at the door of the young man's flat, he was no longer sure of anything. Except that his brother's life depended on Lawrence's answer.

  He flicked away the half-smoked cigarette and stabbed a finger at the bell push. After the tiny buzz came the clatter of feet on stairs, and the door came open in the hand of a pleasant young man with a lazy smile.

  "Mr. Lawrence? My name's Peter Querrin."

  "Come in. Steve-—uh, Inspector Castle—said you were coming.”

  They went up the stairs together. Algy led the way into a room crammed with books. "A drink?"

  "Please."

  Under cover of some polite foolery with the decanter, Lawrence studied his visitor shrewdly. He saw a well-built young man of medium height, older than himself perhaps, but lacking any definite air of seniority. His face was pleasant without being handsome; definitely worried, and with a trace of weakness.

  He took the tumbler from Algy's hand and drank quickly. The liquor flushed against his teeth and went fierily down his throat. It made him cough, briefly, but he felt better for the warmth of it.

  Lawrence flicked an eyebrow. "Another?"

  "N-no, thanks." Querrin handled his glass with unnecessary care as he perched on the edge of a chair. Algy sat down opposite, produced a silver cigarette-case, and opened it invitingly. Peter brushed the offer aside almost impatiently, though without rudeness, and said abruptly:

  "I need your help." His voice wavered disturbingly. Fear that he might bungle his mission made him stammer slightly. "Did the Inspector tell y-you why?"

  "No, he was rather vague. Probably thought anything he said might be taken down and used in evidence. Begin right at the beginning."

  "Castle's been staying with us at Querrin House," said Peter hesitantly. "He's a friend of Roger's."

  "Your-—."

  "My elder brother." Querrin swallowed nervously, faltered, then:

  "Mr. Lawrence, do you believe in ghosts?"

  Algy's surprised grin pointed up the blunder. Peter banged down the empty glass, then shaded his eyes wearily. "I'm bungling this badly." He dropped his hand again and smiled without humour. "I suppose I'm too damned anxious to give the right impression.''

  Lawrence was soothing.

  "Suppose you stop worrying about impressions and give me the facts."

  Querrin nodded. "Yes. Well!" He steadied himself with an effort. "I'll have to tell you something about our family history, I'm afraid."

  "Go ahead."

  Peter said jerkily:

  "The Querrins have lived for years in a little village called Bristley, not far outside London. That is, we've always kept up Querrin House, though we've been mostly too poor to live in it, properly speaking. Anyway, Roger re-opened it recently. He's a pretty shrewd business man and he's got the money to do it. My brother has more or less restored the family fortune, you might say. We've had some bad times in the past-—still, that's nothing to do with the story."

  The words were coming to him more easily now. Lawrence lounged in his chair, discreetly silent.

  "Like a good many old families, we have our own particular legend, tradition, or secret—whatever you like to call it. Ours is mild enough, I suppose, but the village gossips have given it a share of—of spurious glamour and mystery." He paused uncertainly, and realized with a vague uneasiness, it had been in just these words that the tale had been told a few weeks before, at the dawn of the terror. He drew in his breath and shook off the phantoms.

  "They say the Querrins had a secret handed down from father to son for generations. And it really was a secret, too. Nobody ever knew except the head of the family and his heir."

  Lawrence shifted suddenly and made as if to speak, but changed his mind and relaxed again instead.

  Peter went on slowly:

  "There was something of a ritual to all this, down the years. One month before the Querrin heir was to be married, his father would pass on the secret. Always alone," he hesitated, "always at midnight, and always in the same room. We call it the Room in the Passage.

  "Well! This went on for years. Nothing much happened, except we were usually thought of as rather on the gloomy side, with a taste for the morbid and all that, until the story takes a nasty turn round about the middle of the nineteenth century.

  "The head of the family then was a violent-tempered old martinet named Thomas Querrin. He had a son named Martin, who was equally wild and unprincipled. He was more than a match for the old man, by all accounts, though they stayed on fairly good terms till the young man decided to get married." Peter's eyes had shadowed. He seemed to be wandering in some misty country of the mind, only half aware of the other young man who was listening so patiently.

  "They went through the usual ceremony, but this time something went wrong. Badly wrong.

  "The servants were roused by the sounds of a violent quarrel in that old Room in the Passage. Knowing old Thomas as they did, they didn't interfere, until-—."

  Querrin broke off and shrugged.

  "Well, they heard a rather beastly scream, and then there was only silence. When they finally found the courage to go along to the room, they found young Martin lying on the floor with a knife between his shoulder blades, and his father sprawled in the corner in a fit."

  There was a tiny silence. Lawrence broke it. "What happened then?"

  Querrin started. It had been just that question which another had asked before.

  He said softly:

  "They never discovered what the quarrel was about. The old man died without recovering consciousness, and the secret died with him.

  "The line carried on through a younger son, and with the famous old secret lost for ever, the Querrins were a humdrum crowd now.

  "Except for one thing. A rather nasty old story began to grow up round that Room in the Passage. Village talk had the old man's spirit lingering there for all time, waiting forthe Querrins to keep their traditional appointment. If they accepted the secret courageously and respectfully, everything was fine. If they didn't-—."

  He stopped.

  "Yes?"

  "They died like Martin."

  And Peter Querrin, his tale completed, saw himself again with his brother, a girl, and the promise of death.

  Audrey Craig, with a shiver, said:

  "How horrible!"

  Roger Querrin laughed. "You tell the story well, Peter. Almost as if you believed it."

  Peter said queerly: "Don't you?"

  His brother's eyes, lit with a smiling tenderness, slid back to the girl's.

  He replied obliquely:

  "I have a weakness for these old traditions."

  Audrey reached over and squeezed his hand gently, then turning back to Peter:

  "But it is an old wives' tale, surely. I mean, there haven't really been any unexplained deaths here?"

  The young man's gaze flickered uneasily round the room. A dim sense of evil, as yet undefined, seemed to be seeping into him like a presentiment. "Not to my knowledge, no. Though Bristley has it otherwise."

  Roger stood up. "It's a good story, anyway." He added thoughtfully: "It might be—interesting to put it to the test."

  Audrey's grey-green eyes rounded, and Roger smiled at her again. He was very like his brother, but sturdier in build, and with an air of strength and decision rather lacking in the younger man. He was very much in love.

  “Well, darling, there it is. The curse of the Querrins. Still want to marry me?"

  "More than ever." The curve of her lips was adorable. "Besides, it's not really a curse. And I don't believe a word of it."

  "Well, now." Roger smacked his hand on the mantelpiece. "That's the story. This is the room. It could even be," and his gaze went upwards, "that that's the dagger."

  Peter sounded angry. "Stop it, Roger!" He finished in half apology: "You're frightening Audrey."

  She laughed. "No, he isn't. That is, n
ot really." She looked up to where the knife hung over the mantel. "Though it looks evil enough."

  Roger stretched up his hand and slipped the blade free from its sheath. He tested its edge on his finger. "It's sharp enough, too."

  Peter said, not loudly:

  "Put the damned thing back."

  Roger stared at him.

  "What's the matter?"

  "I d-don't know. I've got the jitters this evening. Put it back, old chap."

  The elder man reached up again, and the dagger slid home with a tiny "click!" against its casing.

  Peter muttered: "Thanks,"

  Audrey smiled at him. "You told that story too well," she murmured. "You nearly scared yourself."

  The young man grinned back at her, though briefly. "Perhaps. I don't care for this room, anyway. This is the first time I've been near it since the house was re-opened."

  Roger eyed him affectionately. "You're too imaginative." He added, with mock reproach: "And not very loyal. You ought to be proud of our family ghost."

  Audrey commented:

  "I don't see why. You couldn't call him a very likeable skeleton for the Querrin closet."

  "Careful, darling. Do you want the old boy to take a dislike to you?" Roger stood with his back to the fire: a traditional stance, and one he loved.

  "There's a thought," said Audrey lightly. "Do you think he'd approve of me?" Roger's eyes shuttered.

  He said slowly:

  "I've a damned good mind to ask him."

  It took a long second for the exact implications of his casually appalling remark to reach the girl's consciousness.

  Then she paled and began to whisper:

  "Oh, no, dearest, I didn't mean …."

  But the sharper reaction was Peter's, for it was at this moment that the vague sense of evil oppressing him was obscure no longer: and it struck at him with sudden force.

  He cried out violently:

  "Damned is the word! Have you gone insane?"

  It was a mistake, and he knew it immediately. There was a strong streak of obstinacy in his brother's make-up and opposition often hardened his determination.