Whistle Up the Devil

by Derek Smith

  He began to read.

  " 'For long before the book was written, I said to myself one night that no mystery-monger had ever murdered a man in a room to which there was no possible access. The puzzle was scarcely propounded ere the solution flew up and the idea lay stored in my mind till, years later (mm, ah, um…) the editor of a popular London evening paper,' " Lawrence mumbled again— " 'asked me to provide him with a more original piece of fiction.' ."

  "Well," said Hazlitt inadequately. "He ought to have been ashamed. Putting ideas into criminals' heads like that."

  Lawrence slipped the book back into place, not without a trace of envy. He had been searching for a copy for years.

  He looked up as the door opened and Russell Craig appeared.

  Uncle Russ looked crumpled and irritated. He was apparently feeling the effects of his earlier carousal.

  Lawrence doubted the usefulness of the old rogue's evidence. Hardinge and he had had the devil's own job to rouse him from his slumbers. He had locked his bedroom door, and they had been forced to hammer on the panels.

  Craig was sober enough now, at all events.

  The Sergeant crossed the threshold behind him and stood with his back to the door.

  Hazlitt said:

  "Sit down, Mr. Craig. You won't object if we take your fingerprints? Purely as a matter of routine."

  "Purely as a matter of routine," said Uncle Russ, "why in hell's name should you?"

  After a glance at the Inspector's face, Lawrence interposed hurriedly.

  "You see, sir," he murmured, soothing the old boy's rumpled feathers, "we've found many fingerprints, and; we'd like to account for them all. If there are any we can't identify—well…. "

  He trailed the sentence vaguely.

  Craig squinted at him through horn rimmed spectacles. The old rogue's silver-grey hair was disordered and his velvet collared dressing-gown had obviously been bundled on hastily, yet he still contrived an air of tremendous dignity.

  He said:

  "Very well, my boy. Though," he added shrewdly, "I'll wager you find none of mine in that particular room. I didn't venture into it any more often than I could help."

  Hazlitt signed to Draycott, who took up Craig's hand with a muttered apology. Uncle Russ watched with interest as his fingers were smeared with ink.

  The Inspector asked:

  "You didn't believe that absurd ghost story, surely?"

  "Not exactly. But I don't think it wise to take chances with—with the supernatural."

  "Roger Querrin didn't agree with you there."

  "Roger Querrin," said Uncle Russ incautiously, "was a pig-headed ass." The Inspector pounced.

  "Weren't you on good terms with him, then?"

  "Eh?" Craig blinked. "Oh, but I was. Of course. We were," he pursued unconvincingly, "like father and son." He looked anxious. "You haven't been listening to gossip have you?"

  Draycott released his hands. Uncle Russ flexed his fingers nervously.

  Hazlitt said softly:

  "Whose gossip, Mr. Craig?"

  "Eh? Oh, nobody's." Audrey's uncle did not look happy. "You know how things are in a small village. And the servants, too. They're never reliable."

  "The servants," repeated Hazlitt. "Wait a minute. Didn't somebody tell me you were drinking with the butler yesterday evening?"

  "That's right," said Craig unhappily. "I was."

  Lawrence watched his discomfort with a sympathetic grin.

  "And then," continued Hazlitt ruthlessly, "you were helped to your room."

  "My offer to act as a guard," said Craig with dignity, "was rejected. So I withdrew."

  The Inspector, whose handling of the subject had been reminiscent of a dog toying with a tasty bone, dropped it reluctantly.

  His questions established little or nothing of value. Russell Craig said that, left alone in his room, he had gone straight to sleep and knew nothing more until repeated knocking on the door had roused him.

  The Inspector, at last, dismissed him with a sigh.

  He said, as the door closed:

  "The devil take this case. All the witnesses have been the same." He tapped his thumbnail with the tip of his pencil. "Either they know nothing at all, or they swear to an impossibility." His expression was half angry, half humorous.

  He sighed again.

  "Ah, well. Let's see the butler."

  Jexen was a slightly built man with a grave face.

  He said:

  "No, sir. I heard nothing. Neither, I am sure, did anyone else."

  The Inspector's face said plainly: I knew it.

  He said:

  "Yes, yes. I know the servants' quarters are more or less sealed off from the rest of the house. But surely you heard something."

  Jexen said:

  "No, sir." He paused. "Mr. Querrin—Mr. Roger Querrin," he emphasized in parenthesis, "gave us; strict instructions to retire early. He mentioned particularly that no one was to pry"—he spoke the word with distaste—"into the room at the end of the passage."

  Hazlitt muttered something. "All right, then. You were all in your beds. With your heads under the covers, probably."

  Lawrence reflected that Roger's staff of servants had displayed even less initiative than old Tom Querrin's: unlike the Inspector however, he felt he could hardly blame them. Roger had been so anxious to keep them out of the way. Algy wondered if Hazlitt would pursue his inquiry into Russell Craig's peccadilloes.

  Almost as if he had taken the thought from the young man's mind, the Inspector said:

  "We've been told that you and Russell Craig were drinking together yesterday evening. Is that right?"

  A faint smile flitted across the butler's lips.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Was that usual?"

  "Hardly, sir. Though Mr. Craig and myself—." He hesitated. "Mr. Craig is a friendly gentleman, sir. The occasion was in the nature of a celebration."

  "Oh? What kind of a celebration?"

  Jexen looked slightly uncomfortable.

  He said:

  "This is rather difficult, sir. I suppose you could call it a farewell party."

  "What?"

  The Inspector leaned forward. Jexen moistened his lips. He seemed ill at ease.

  Hazlitt said irritably:

  "Come on, man. We've heard nothing of this before. A farewell party, you said. Who was leaving? Were you?"

  "I? Oh no, sir. Mr. Craig intended to depart from Bristley very shortly."

  "He told us nothing—." The Inspector broke off. "He's here with his niece. And Querrin and she weren't to be married for a month yet. Why was the old man going so soon?"

  Jexen looked unhappy.

  Hazlitt gave him no quarter. "Out with it, man. I asked you a question."

  Jexen said slowly:

  "Mr. Craig confided, sir, that—that Mr. Querrin had asked him to leave."

  "Told him to get out, you mean?" This time the Inspector was really startled. "Why?"

  "It's a delicate matter, sir."

  "I've no doubt. Unfortunately I've no time for delicacy. Why was Craig told to go?"

  Jexen was a loyal man, and he liked Audrey's uncle-but he had to answer.

  He said, with an effort:

  "Mr. Craig—assaulted one of the maids, sir."

  "Assaulted one of the maids?" repeated Hazlitt, not without surprise. "Why—and how?"

  "Really, sir." The butler shifted uneasily. "I'd rather you learned the details from the young person herself."

  "Oh, very well. Sergeant!"

  Hardinge was sent in search of Susan York.

  When she finally appeared and took the butler's place in the chair before the table, Lawrence recognized the shapely hipped young housemaid who had brought sandwiches to his bedroom. Her flimsy negligee displayed her pretty figure to pleasant advantage, and a wide blue ribbon lent a provocative touch to her loosened hair.

  She turned wide brown eyes on the Inspector.

  Hazlitt coughed. "You are Susan Y
ork?"

  "That's right, sir." Her voice was soft and pleasing, with an overlay of movie-brand sophistication.

  Algy looked at her with interest. The curve of her mouth was pertly attractive: he wondered if Uncle Russ had thought so, too.

  Hazlitt continued:

  "About Russell Craig… " He paused. "You know him, of course."

  "Yes, yes, sir." Susan added impulsively: "He's an old dear. If you'll pardon my mentioning it."

  She subsided guiltily.

  The Inspector's eyebrows went up.

  "We've been told he assaulted you."

  Susan jumped to her feet.

  "Nothing of the sort," she cried indignantly. "He's the perfect gentleman, I hope. Though he did—."

  She broke off and giggled.

  The Inspector did not look pleased. "Now, my girl. Be careful. We have definite information that Mr. Querrin had told him to go."

  Susan looked remorseful.

  "I know, sir. Mr. Roger was very strict. I didn't think the story would get to his ears, else I shouldn't have spoken. I didn't—don't want to get Mr. Craig into trouble. He's very nice, really."

  "Yet he ill-treated you."

  "No, sir. It was what any gentleman might do."

  "What, then?" Hazlitt was getting impatient. "Did he kiss you?"

  "Oh, no." Susan's reply was a trifle regretful.

  "For heaven's sake." Exasperation sounded in the Inspector's voice.

  Answer me, girl. What did he do?"

  A twinkle of amusement danced in Susan's eyes. She said demurely:

  "He smacked me. Hard. On the bottom."

  And she rubbed her chubby buttocks reminiscently.

  Russell Craig said defensively:

  "It was only a playful slap."

  He gestured descriptively, then dropped his hand hurriedly.

  Lawrence strangled a laugh.

  Uncle Russ passed a handkerchief over his forehead.

  He said feebly:

  "You know how these things happen. She was bending over, dusting, and—."

  "Yes, yes," said the Inspector hastily. "You don't have to go into the details. We want Roger Querrin's reaction, that's all."

  "Roger," replied Craig, glumly, "was most unpleasant."

  "He told you to clear out?"

  "You put it crudely, Inspector. But—yes, he did."

  "May I ask why you kept this a secret?"

  Craig protested. "Hardly a secret. I mentioned it to Jexen."

  "In a moment," commented Hazlitt unkindly, "of alcoholic carelessness."

  Craig blinked.

  He said:

  "Inspector, your interrogation is playing havoc with my nerves. I was indulging last night… And, frankly I'm in urgent need of a hair of the dog."

  "You'll have to wait, Mr. Craig. There's no liquor here."

  "Oh," returned the old reprobate courteously, "but there is." He turned to Lawrence. "My boy, if you would be so kind as to move those two volumes of Havelock Ellis—."

  Algy grinned. Behind the psychologist's monumental and kindly work, he found the irreverent presence of a bottle and a glass.

  "My refuge," murmured Uncle Russ, "in emergencies."

  Lawrence poured out a drink. Craig seized the tumbler with relief.

  Hazlitt tapped impatiently.

  "Mr. Craig—."

  "Hmmm? Oh, yes." The old rogue pulled himself together. "Well, Inspector, I told no one else of Roger's rather surly action because, frankly, I expected him to think better of it."

  "You mean you expected to get round him somehow?"

  "After all," replied Craig, with dignity, "he was engaged to my niece. And I confess that I considered a successful conclusion of tonight's—last night's venture might put him into a better humour."

  The speech had a hollow ring.

  Hazlitt threw down his pencil. "All right. You can go back to bed. But remember," he warned, "this inquiry is only just beginning. Nobody leaves without my permission."

  "I can assure you, Inspector," responded Russell Craig, "I shall be only too happy to extend my stay at Querrin House indefinitely."

  "I bet he will," commented Hazlitt, when Uncle Russ had left. "This is a soft berth for that old rogue. Peter Querrin won't be rid of him in a hurry."

  "You're forgetting the girl," said Lawrence. "She'll stay no longer than she's forced to."

  The Inspector nodded. He seemed tired.

  "I suppose not. Ah, well. Now we shall have to interview the rest of the servants."

  "Forgive me," interrupted Lawrence, "if I don't stay to listen."

  Hazlitt nodded again.

  He said wearily:

  "I don't imagine we shall learn anything useful."

  Once outside the door, Lawrence leaned for a second with his back against the panels.

  Fatigue and something like despair held him for the moment, then he straightened up and walked slowly towards the drawing-room.

  Peter Querrin was still there, hunched in a chair and staring into the ashes of a burnt-out fire.

  Lawrence went up to him slowly.

  He said quietly:

  "I'm sorry, Peter."

  The travesty of a smile crossed Querrin's mouth.

  "It had to happen, I suppose." He pinched the skin between his eyebrows. "That moment when we broke into the room… It was just such a horror as I've seen in dreams. Only now the nightmare is reality."

  "Steady, old chap."

  Querrin looked up suddenly.

  "Lawrence, I have to know. How did my brother die?"

  Algy dropped a hand on Peter's shoulder.

  "He was killed by a man like ourselves. Not by a ghost."

  Querrin clenched his fist, then rubbed it into the palm of his other hand. He said:

  "We weren't able to save Roger. But at least we can avenge him."

  "That's right," said Algy Lawrence.

  His eyes were strangely dull.

  John Hardinge walked wearily along the drive, away from Querrin House. Hazlitt and his two assistants had already left. The Sergeant had stayed behind to hand over the care of the house and its occupants to a fresh-faced young constable from the village.

  Now at last, Hardinge could return to the station. The dawn was already streaking light through the sky: he would have time for only a brief rest before returning to duty.

  Every witness had been interviewed, and no new fact had been discovered. Hazlitt had gone to make his report at headquarters, and now—.

  Hardinge shook his head. He wondered how the case would end.

  He stopped suddenly.

  A sound, beyond that of his own footfalls, had reached his ears.

  He called sharply:

  "Who's there?"

  Something rustled among the bushes.

  Hardinge ran forward, swept aside the foliage with one hand, and flashed on his lamp with the other.

  The light picked out the figure of a hatless, crouching man. The Sergeant drew in his breath.

  "Good Lord! It's—.”

  The prowler threw up a hand across his white face, shielding his eyes from the blinding glare.

  "I want you," said Hardinge grimly. "I—."

  He got no further. The shabby man, caught between fear and fury, hurled himself forward.

  The move took Hardinge by surprise.

  The prowler's shoulder crashed into his chest, driving him backwards. He staggered and fell.

  He grabbed desperately as he went, and catching the cloth of the shabby man's coat, dragged him down.

  Sprawling across the Sergeant's body, the prowler flailed down his fist in a desperate bid for escape.

  Hardinge twisted aside. The blow caught him high on the temple.

  Dazed but determined, the Sergeant brought up his knee in the other man's stomach.

  His attacker gasped and rolled over.

  Hardinge struggled up. He fumbled for his policeman's whistle.

  Jamming it between his lips he sent blast after bla
st shrilling through the gloom.

  Lawrence had not yet gone up to his room. Fie had stayed downstairs with Peter Querrin. Both men felt extremely tired, yet neither felt like sleep.

  Querrin said, not for the first time: "It's all so completely— incredible."

  They were standing in the hall and talking quietly. Hardinge had let himself out shortly before, and the young constable was sitting patiently beside the entrance to the long corridor.

  Lawrence murmured:

  "I know, Peter. There's nothing we can do for the moment. I—what's that?"

  He broke off as the blasts of Hardinge's whistle sounded from the grounds outside. Police Constable Shaw jumped to his feet.

  He cried:

  "The Sergeant!"

  With a sudden exclamation, Lawrence ran to the door and pulled it open.

  Half falling down the steps, the three men raced along the drive.

  Still in the lead, Lawrence rounded a bend, then skidded to a stop.

  Hardinge was kneeling beside the prostrate figure of a man stretched out on the ground.

  The Sergeant stood up shakily, brushing the dirt and gravel from his knees. He said:

  "I'm glad you came."

  Querrin pushed forward.

  "What happened?"

  Hardinge gestured. "I found this fellow prowling in the bushes that border the drive. The damn' fool attacked me when I challenged him. I fought free long enough to reach my whistle, then the struggle was on again. I'm afraid I had to stun him finally."

  He rubbed his knuckles gently.

  Lawrence said:

  "I don't blame you." He added grimly:

  "I wonder if I know the gentleman."

  Hardinge glanced at the strip of plaster on the young man's forehead, and smiled.

  "We'll soon settle that, sir. Constable!"

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "Let me have your flashlight. Mine was damaged when we fell."

  He took the lamp from Shaw's hand and stepped back to the fallen man.

  As the beam drove the shadows from the unconscious face, Peter Querrin cried out in surprise.

  "Good God! It's—."

  The Sergeant interrupted. "Just a minute, sir. Now, Mr. Lawrence. Do you recognize this man?"

  "I do," said Algy, with feeling. His fingers went up to the bruise on his temple.