Whistle Up the Devil

by Derek Smith

  He said:

  You can rely on me, Lawrence. I'll do whatever you say."

  Algy clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder. "That's the spirit." Another cliché, he thought. Yet the bromides were soothing enough.

  The curtains swayed behind them, and Roger and Audrey stepped in from the passage.

  The girl saw that Lawrence had at last stripped off his raincoat and was twirling his crushed green hat absently round his hand. Steve Castle would have assumed he was looking for a suitable target at which to aim it… Lawrence had the unmistakable air of a man who delights in using the head-piece of a classical bust as a hat-rack.

  Audrey said:

  "I'll take you upstairs, Mr. Lawrence. You'll want to unpack."

  “Eh?" Roger Querrin was recalled to his duties as host. "Oh, of course. Don't bother, Audrey. I'll show you to your room, Lawrence."

  Algy followed him up the stairs.

  The room to which he was shown was airy and comfortable. He prodded the bed approvingly. It was soft and well sprung. Not, as he reflected ruefully, that he would be spending much time in it.

  Roger said:

  "I expect you're rather hungry. Would you like some sandwiches?"

  "Please."

  "I'll have them sent up to you." Roger paused with his hand on the door. He hesitated. He said:

  "I haven't been very gracious. I think you're wasting your time, and I've said so. Just the same," he finished awkwardly, "I'd like you to know I'm grateful."

  Lawrence nodded pleasantly.

  Querrin went out.

  Algy dropped his hat and coat carelessly on a chair, transferred the gun to his jacket, then stretched out lazily on the bed.

  It was all, he decided complacently, going to be very easy.

  His eyes closed.

  Somebody tapped on the door. Lawrence called out lazily. "Come in."

  A tray chinked invitingly, and the appetizing aroma of coffee drifted past his nostrils.

  Algy opened one eye, saw slim hands, and swung his feet hurriedly to the floor.

  "Oh, it's you. Sorry," he ended vaguely.

  Audrey Craig smiled at him delightfully.

  "This is," she commented, "a very personal service. I hope," she added with a twinkle, "you're duly appreciative."

  "I am," said Algy Lawrence, and regarded her with admiration.

  She was indeed good to look upon. No longer hidden by the gay but unrevealing swagger coat, the moulding of her figure was exquisite. The gently-swelling breasts and the curves of her beautiful thighs and legs were innocent, frank, and completely seductive.

  Lawrence said sincerely:

  "You're very beautiful."

  "Thank you." Audrey tried to be severe, but only succeeded in sounding pleased. "Shall I pour?"

  "Mmm?"

  "The coffee. Shall I pour?"

  "Yes please."

  Audrey balanced the tray on the bed and sat down cautiously beside it. She handed the young man a steaming cup, then leaned over and put the coffee pot, for safety, on the bedside table.

  Pleasantly disturbed by her nearness, he noticed a rebellious tendril had once more shaken free from her sleek red-brown hair. He put out his hand and smoothed it gently away from her forehead.

  The fleeting touch, brief as it was, startled them both.

  Audrey, an unwilling surprise in her grey-green eyes, said faintly: "Don't spill your coffee."

  "I won't." He put the cup carefully on the table beside him.

  Then he dropped his hand over hers on the coverlet.

  Oddly embarrassed, the girl said quickly:

  "I wanted to thank you—for looking after Roger… "

  "Don't thank me."

  She struggled on inconsequentially:

  "And wanted to ask you—why you became a detective…."

  "Don't ask me," he murmured; then moved by an impulse he couldn't explain, leaned across and kissed her deliberately, full on the mouth.

  Her lips were wholly unresponsive.

  He broke away and stood up with sourness on his tongue.

  The girl stayed where she was, her eyes rounded and a faint tinge of scarlet on her cheeks.

  Lawrence said angrily:

  "You ought to slap my face."

  Audrey's voice was small.

  "Wouldn't that be rather—Victorian?"

  "I behaved like a cad." He smiled without humour. "That's Victorian, too."

  The girl said shakily:

  "It was only a kiss."

  He replied obscurely:

  "That's just the trouble."

  Audrey stood up. "I'd better go."

  The door closed behind her. Algy wandered over towards the window and stood staring out with an angry frown.

  A blunder, he thought savagely. Of the worst kind.

  At length the old placidity returned to his face and the lazy kindness to his eyes.

  "At least," he murmured aloud, "I answered her question."

  For Audrey Craig, no less than Stephen Castle, had wondered why Algy Lawrence should be content to spend his life exploring the labyrinthine ways of crime.

  He followed a path that was sometimes dangerous, frequently weary, and always lonely. Yet he lived by a code and he lived for a quest.

  For Lawrence was seeking his lady

  3

  All thoughts of romantic adventure, however, were far from Lawrence's mind as he descended the staircase in the early evening.

  He knew that Audrey Craig was a good-humoured and well-adjusted young lady, unlikely to bother herself with a grudge. The incident in his bedroom could be politely ignored with profit to them both.

  Nevertheless, the mild species of madness which had led him to the blunder had emphasized his distaste for the adventure as a whole. He reflected uncharitably on the imperfections of the Querrins: the neurotic fears of one brother, and the stubbornness of the other.

  The devil take them both, he thought unkindly; then laughed at his own inconsistency. Their safety was, for the moment at least, his special charge.

  He didn't believe there was any real danger, but just the same he intended his precautions to be detailed and his defences impregnable.

  He had already examined the servants and dismissed them as negligible, either as a force for evil or for good.

  There was, however, one member of the household whom he had not yet interviewed, and he intended now to remedy the omission.

  Following his nose, he pushed open the door of the drawing-room and was immediately lucky.

  An elderly gentleman with a large nose and silver-grey hair was sitting by the fire beneath the discreet glow of a standard lamp. He was smoking, with evident enjoyment, one of Roger's best cigars, and he was peering through enormous horn-rimmed spectacles at a book balanced on one elegantly crossed knee.

  At the young man's approach, he looked up, nodded amiably, laid his book face downwards on the arm of his chair, and levered himself to his feet.

  "Ah, Mr. Lawrence, isn't it? My name is Russell Craig."

  They shook hands. Algy gazed at Audrey's uncle with considerable interest.

  He was already aware that Mr. Craig had invited himself to Querrin House on the strength of the engagement, nominally as his niece's chaperon, but actually to indulge in the fleshpots.

  Algy, despite Castle's implied disfavour and Audrey's half-serious misgivings, liked the old rogue's looks.

  He was wearing, and in this manner showing an easy blend of comfort and formality, a soft shirt with his black tie and dinner jacket. In the matter of age, he seemed poised indeterminately between the middle fifties and the early sixties. There was a lusty glow of humour in his slate-grey eyes, and his manner was both courteous and distinguished. If he had a tendency to plumpness, it was largely obscured by the expert cut of his clothes. He had moreover the bland air of a man who forgot to pay his tailor.

  "Well, my boy," said Russell Craig, "how would you like a drink before dinner, hey?"

  Lawrenc
e hesitated. He was the mildest of drinkers.

  "You're not," said Craig, with sudden suspicion, "a teetotaller?"

  Algy smiled.

  "No. Not exactly."

  "Good." Uncle Russ seemed relieved. "Horrid people, teetotallers. Addicted to all kinds of strange vices I believe."

  He strolled across to a decanter on the sideboard.

  Algy glanced at the book he had left balanced on the armchair. He saw with pleased surprise that it was a first edition of The Man of the Forty Faces.

  Russell Craig turned back with a glass in each hand. Handing one tumbler to Algy Lawrence, he said:

  "Fine stuff this, my boy. I don't mind admitting it's the prop of my declining years. When I was young"— he drew up his mouth in a horrible leer—"I had—other diversions. But now," and he sighed, "I find consolation in the pleasures of good whisky and bad detective stories."

  Algy said with a grin:

  "Bad detective stories?"

  "Yes," said the old rogue earnestly. "And I mean that as a compliment. I have no patience with the modern conception of a detective as an ordinary young man with a polite manner and a weakness for quotations. I like my sleuths from the old school—wayward, arrogant, eccentric, and infallible."

  Warming to his theme, Uncle Russ picked up his novel and waved it under Lawrence's nose.

  "You've never heard of Hamilton Cleek," he thundered. "Or the Hanshews either. Tell me," he went on, with commendable fervour, but muddled logic, "that their writing was bad, their sentimentality embarrassing, and their drama wildly funny. Tell me all that and I'll agree with you. But, by God, they used ideas!

  "A man walked into a room and vanished without a trace. Or died alone, from an explosion out of nowhere. Ingenuity, my boy! Not half-baked Freudian theory.

  "Meet the Vanishing Cracksman and you might find also a nine-fingered skeleton, a monster footprint, an icicle shot from a crossbow, or a camera that takes the picture of a murderer from the retina of a dead man's eye.

  "The Hanshews, Thomas and Mary," and he pronounced the names with affection, "knew the true detective story was only as good as its plot."

  He paused for breath.

  Algy Lawrence, a twinkle in his lazy blue eye, said thoughtfully:

  "Mmmm… Of course, I'm no expert. But I see that's the first edition you have there, published by Cassell in 1910. Did you know it was reissued in 1913 as Cleek, The Man of the Forty Faces, with three of the original stories left out, and a new one included? In the U.S.A., oddly enough, the amended text was published five years before the original finally appeared as Cleek, the Master Detective."

  "My boy," said Russell Craig with a new respect, "I see I've misjudged you. Have another drink."

  "I haven't," replied Lawrence hastily, "finished this one yet."

  "A trifling objection," said Russell Craig. He retrieved his cigar from the ash-tray and puffed at it sternly.

  Algy Lawrence was about to answer when his eye was caught by a movement in the bushes outside. Uncle Russ, with commendable British fortitude, had left one half of the french windows standing slightly ajar, and in the dying light of the day Lawrence could see clearly a peculiarly localized disturbance of the foliage.

  Exactly why this struck him as remarkable, the young man was unable to tell. Perhaps it was the memory of Audrey's earlier alarm.

  Algy swallowed the remainder of his drink and strolled, as if casually, towards the windows.

  Yes, there it was again: in the bushes beyond the path, an ominous rustling. Moved for the second time that day by an impulse he could hardly explain, Lawrence dropped the empty tumbler with a soft thud on the carpet, flung both the windows wide, and hurled himself out into the garden.

  Moving without conscious thought, his long legs thudded over the ground. He reached the shrubbery with the blood singing in his ears and a soft curtain of rain striking mistily at his face.

  The shaking of the bushes became violent and unconcealed. Algy charged into them without a second's hesitation, the wet leaves slapping at him in waspish protest.

  There was a man there right enough, turned now in flight. Lawrence threw himself forward. His fingers scrabbled at the hem of the prowler's coat, and they went down together, rolling dizzily in the mud.

  The fugitive came off best. Agile as a cat, he was already on one knee before Lawrence had time to do more than raise himself dazedly on his elbow.

  Algy caught one glimpse of the prowler's face, scared and set with a desperate fury, before a skinny arm swept up, then down, and hurled him into blackness.

  After a while the throbbing stabs of pain stopped driving through his head, and left only a villainous ache in his temples.

  Lawrence opened his eyes and found Audrey's face very close to his.

  He tried to speak, then closed his eyes again with a groan. The girl's fingers felt very cool against his brow.

  She said anxiously:

  "Mr. Lawrence! Are you all right?"

  "I—I think so."

  His voice seemed new and untried, and sounded strange even to himself.

  He sat up wearily. A fresh wave of pain nearly swamped him once more, but he rode the storm doggedly.

  "Ahhh…" He shook his head groggily. A thin trickle of blood stood out redly on his white face. Above him and around him, the bush leaves rustled wetly.

  Audrey said again:

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes," he returned weakly.

  She put her hand on his shoulder. "What happened?"

  "I caught a prowler. Then he hit me—with a stone, I think... Did you see him?"

  She shook her head. "No. I came into the drawing-room just after you left. Uncle Russ and I followed you, and found you like this."

  Somebody shifted awkwardly behind her. A lighted cigar glowed in the gathering darkness.

  Russell Craig cleared his throat. "I don't wish to seem unsympathetic, my dear, but it's deuced uncomfortable here in the rain. If Mr. Lawrence can walk, I suggest we assist him back to the house."

  The girl and her uncle helped him to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, then with an arm round Russell Craig's shoulders, made a halting journey back to the drawing-room.

  The rain was falling more heavily now and he reached the lights and warmth with an excusable relief.

  Audrey guided him to the sofa, then stood back with worry on her pretty face.

  "You look terrible," she said frankly. "Shall I call a doctor?"

  "I'd rather—you didn't."

  "But—."

  "My dear," interrupted her uncle, "there's nothing wrong with our young friend which a good stiff drink can't cure."

  Audrey gestured helplessly, but he was already handling the decanter.

  "Here, my boy. Take this."

  "Uncle Russ!" The girl tut-tutted impatiently. "That's much too strong."

  "Then," said Russell Craig with dignity, "I shall drink it myself."

  And did so.

  She scolded him briefly, then hurried through the door.

  Lawrence closed his eyes. These cushions are very comfortable, he thought. If only my head didn't ache so much…..

  Something cool sponged over his face. Audrey Craig was bathing his forehead.

  "Keep still," she murmured.

  Lawrence relaxed.

  Audrey smoothed the tousled blond hair away from his brow and examined the wound with a frown.

  The skin was torn and a bruise was already discolouring his temples, but now the clotted blood was washed away she could see that the damage wasn't as extensive as she had thought.

  Algy opened one eye.

  "How is it?"

  She smiled. "You'll live. With a Grade A headache."

  The door opened again. Roger Querrin hurried in, his face concerned.

  "Lawrence, old fellow. What happened?"

  Audrey explained briefly.

  Her fiancé announced:

  "I'll phone for the police at once."

  "N
o." Algy roused himself to protest. "Hardinge will be here soon enough. I don't want to raise the alarm. I came here to look after you, don't forget. It won't help me to set the place in a turmoil."

  "But we ought to get after the man who attacked you—."

  "He's had time enough to get away. Leave it alone."

  "Shouldn't we look for—for clues, or something?" Roger waved his hand uncertainly.

  Lawrence grinned faintly. The first few words of his reply were drowned out by a long roll of thunder.

  Querrin glanced round, startled. He seemed for once to be in danger of losing his air of bluff equanimity.

  Lawrence said:

  "There's your answer. That heavy rain will wash out every trace." Russell Craig turned away from the windows.

  "That's true enough," he observed. "Look here, Roger, my boy." He pointed through the glass. "Our own footmarks are disappearing fast."

  Querrin did not reply directly.

  "Very well, then." He was looking towards Lawrence inquiringly. "What do you advise?"

  "All I can suggest," said Algy, sitting upright, "is a policy—ouch!—of masterly inactivity." He put up his hand to his head. "In other words, there's damn all we can do. For the moment, at least."

  "You," said Audrey Craig severely, "are going up to bed. At once."

  He smiled at her. "That's not a bad idea. I need to be fit for to-night." Roger cleared his throat. He said gruffly:

  "You're in no shape for a late night sitting. Couldn't you call off all this nonsense about a guard?"

  "That's sound sense, my boy," said Uncle Russ from across the room. He added eagerly: "Let me take your place to-night."

  Lawrence saw alarm spring into the girl's eyes, and grinned at her reassuringly.

  Querrin said dryly, over his shoulder:

  "I'd rather you didn't, thanks."

  It was almost a snub. It seemed that Roger and Audrey both shared Steve Castle's opinion of Russell Craig's reliability.

  "Nobody," said Lawrence firmly, "is taking my place to-night. I came here to look after you, Querrin, and by glory, I'm going to do it."

  He stood up. "But now," he added ruefully, "I need a rest."

  He went back to his room on Roger's arm, and was relieved they did not meet Peter on the way. He hadn't the smallest doubt that the younger Querrin would be thrown into a minor panic when he heard the news, and felt in no state to cope with him.