Whistle Up the Devil

by Derek Smith

  Peter spoke his name, urgently. "Are you all right?"

  Lawrence mumbled:

  "All ri'—."

  His head fell back once more.

  Querrin released his grip and straightened up. He looked round dizzily. Then he spilled water from a carafe on a clean handkerchief and began to bathe Lawrence's temples gingerly.

  Algy's eyes flickered open. The intelligence seeped back to them rapidly.

  Grabbing Peter's wrist with surprising strength, Lawrence croaked:

  "Where is he?"

  "Who?"

  The blond young man did not reply. He levered himself up to a sitting position, muttering:

  "He hit me with a stick—. Heavens! I remember."

  He broke off abruptly.

  His fingers pressed hard into Querrin's flesh. He mumbled incoherently:

  "It all went wrong. I—I—you'll have to help me. The man who murdered your brother… Which way did he go?"

  The shock held Peter silent. He shook his head numbly.

  Lawrence cried:

  "You must have seen him."

  He struggled up, then sank back once more. He kept on talking.

  "He was waiting for me when I came in… We talked. I meant to trap him, but I over-played my hand… God damn it! There's no time to lose. Where is he?"

  Peter shook his head again.

  He whispered:

  "You don't understand. I was close at hand when you fell and cried out. I was coming out of my room, and the noise startled me. I was looking along the corridor. I didn't take my eyes from your door."

  He paused, remembering.

  He concluded fearfully:

  "No one came out."

  Lawrence's eyes blurred.

  "So he's vanished again. It's a trick, Peter. A devilish trick."

  He put out his arm. Querrin helped him to stand.

  Lawrence gasped:

  "I need a drink."

  He lurched against the bedrail.

  "Here." Peter pulled out a flask from his hip pocket, put it in the other man's hand. Lawrence let a few drops of the fiery liquid trickle down his throat.

  "Thanks." He wiped his mouth. "I'm better now." New strength had surged into his speech.

  He said bitterly:

  "So much for my plans. Steve was right."

  Peter cried:

  "For heaven's sake! What happened?"

  Lawrence muttered:

  "You've a right to know. I should have told you before. Peter, we've discovered who killed your brother."

  "Who, then?"

  Querrin mouthed the words painfully.

  Lawrence spoke a name.

  Peter grew flushed and incredulous.

  "What!"

  The cry was mid way between a question and an exclamation.

  He added sincerely:

  "I can't believe it."

  "Think, Peter. Think." Lawrence smacked his hand on the bedrail in emphasis. "Who was the man with no proper alibi—the man nobody saw for nearly an hour after Roger died? Who locked his bedroom door, and stayed in his room till the Sergeant and I roused him? Who said he heard nothing, though his room was near the head of the stairs?"

  Querrin caught his breath.

  "The scream—and the shots—."

  "Yes." Algy was eager. "Audrey heard them, though her bedroom is farthest from the stairway."

  Peter cried:

  "I still can't believe it!"

  Lawrence said grimly:

  "This man was faced with the prospect of losing a comfortable home. He probably expected to stay here, once Audrey and Roger were married. But he made a mistake when he fooled around with the servants, and your brother told him to leave."

  "That's no motive—."

  Lawrence cut in ruthlessly. "We've been told that Roger died intestate. But did he? Maybe he made the will he intended."

  "You mean—bequeathing the money to Audrey?"

  "Yes. Perhaps there is such a document in existence. Perhaps our man has possession of it."

  Lawrence finished tiredly:

  "He gave himself away."

  Querrin asked:

  "How?"

  Algy grinned briefly. "Those crazy theories. He did his best to confuse me. But he made one mistake."

  He paused.

  "He told me that when I broke into Roger's room, the fire in the grate was nearly out. Only embers remained."

  Peter was puzzled.

  "That was the truth, surely."

  "Certainly. But how did he know?"

  "But I—." Peter gulped. "I—I mean. That is—."

  Lawrence helped him out.

  "He must have been in the room himself, without our knowledge."

  "Then how did he escape?"

  Lawrence shook his head. "That's too long a story." He scuffed a foot against the stick on the carpet, winced, and put up his fingers to his forehead. Then his hand dropped suddenly.

  He whispered:

  "No…."

  "Lawrence! What is it?"

  Algy pointed. Querrin stared at the dressing-table. The fair haired young man said grittily:

  "That drawer has been forced."

  He sprang forward, and wrenched it open.

  Then he twisted round with a desperate face.

  He said, with a quiet hopelessness:

  "He's taken the gun."

  … Downstairs in the room where a man had died, the pistol was held in a podgy hand.

  "Please don't move," said Russell Craig, politely. "I wouldn't like to have your death on my conscience."

  Lawrence's mouth set hard.

  He said:

  "That old rogue is a murderer. He won't hesitate to kill again."

  "For God's sake!"

  All Peter's bewilderment exploded into the cry. He felt sick and confused.

  Lawrence clutched hard on the bedrail. His knuckles showed white.

  He muttered:

  "I have to think. Now, as never before, I've got to think."

  His eyes closed. . . .

  Querrin was muddled. "Should we call the police?"

  Algy's lids snapped open. "Yes. Ring Hardinge—. No, damn it, wait… There isn't time enough to reach him."

  He jerked into action.

  "Come with me, Peter. We have to settle this ourselves."

  They hurried out on the landing. Peter gazed round helplessly. Lawrence called:

  "This way."

  They went down the stairs. Algy took three steps towards the double doors at the entrance to the passage, then stopped.

  He murmured:

  "No. We can't reach him that way. Follow me."

  The side door came open at his touch. The two men ran silently along the path, skirting the outside wall of the corridor. As they neared the turn of the pathway, Lawrence laid a restraining hand on Querrin's arm.

  "Easy. We have to be careful."

  He moved forward cautiously and looked towards the french windows. Then he sighed with relief.

  He breathed:

  "The curtains are drawn. Come on, Peter."

  They stepped off the path and walked noiselessly across the soft brown soil. Their footprints sprang up in silent commentary.

  As they neared the room in which Roger had died, the sound of voices came like a ghost to their ears.

  The french windows were unfastened. Lawrence eased one side partially open.

  The voices grew clear and distinct. Through a gap in the curtains, he could see Russell Craig.

  Two people were talking in that room.

  One was an innocent person.

  The other was a ruthless killer.

  Uncle Russ said mildly:

  "I've never murdered anybody. Though Lawrence thinks I was responsible for two deaths at least. But then, he's not very bright, is he? You fooled him easily."

  The other said hoarsely:

  "What do you want of me?"

  Craig responded benignly:

  "You'll learn in due course. In the me
antime,"—here the old rogue shifted the pistol slightly—"don't make any sudden movements. I shan't hesitate to fire. That," he ended courteously, "is a warning."

  There was a short, uneasy laugh. "I suppose there's a reason for your actions."

  "There is," agreed Uncle Russ. He settled his back against the mantel. "But please sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

  A chair creaked.

  Craig continued:

  "A word of explanation. I don't want you to misconstrue my motives. I know my duty as a citizen. If I choose to neglect it, it's not because I have a sentimental distaste for putting you on trial. I could watch you die with equanimity." His voice was hard. "No, I have another reason for letting you go free."

  His companion was torn between relief and apprehension; but made no reply.

  Craig went on smoothly:

  "In this harsh world I have to look after myself. I'm not," he coughed, "financially secure. So I lack the little comforts due to me."

  The light of understanding showed in the other's eyes.

  "Go on."

  "I need—you'll pardon the expression—a meal ticket. I'm an old man," said Uncle Russ, wrapped in self-pity, "and I want to see out my life in comfort. So naturally, I require money. You, my dear—."

  The other interrupted.

  "Blackmail!"

  The word was sharp and ugly.

  "Exactly." Craig's manner was benevolent and avuncular. "You are going to provide me with a substantial annuity. You may regard me, if you wish, as a remittance man." He chuckled. "Or a dependent relative. Though I don't advise you to show me as such on your Income Tax returns."

  "I have no money."

  "Oh, come now." Craig was reproachful. "Though it doesn't at the moment appear to do so; you know, and I know, that Roger's death has made you a wealthy person. You can spare a little for me. In fact," he laughed, "you will have to spare a good deal."

  The other's voice was soft.

  "You're playing a dangerous game."

  "I agree. But don't think you can scare me." Craig indicated the pistol in his hand.

  "You won't always have a gun."

  The old rascal eyed his companion thoughtfully.

  He said:

  "You're not wise to threaten me."

  There was a silence.

  Then Craig murmured: "It makes no difference. I shall strengthen my defences."

  The reply was almost a sneer.

  "How?"

  "Ah." Craig placed one finger along his nose. "You'll see."

  The other stirred.

  "I've listened to you patiently. And you're talking nonsense. You can't keep me here for ever. When I leave, I shall go straight to the police station, and—."

  "I don't think so." Craig was unruffled. "I've nothing to fear. I shall give my evidence at the inquest this afternoon."

  "Your evidence?"

  Unwilling fear showed in the question.

  "Yes." Craig smiled. He looked like a cat playing with a mouse. "You see, I wasn't asleep—the night friend Roger died. I heard the scream, and then the shots—."

  There was the sound of an indrawn breath.

  "I got up hastily. My room is near the head of the stairs. I looked down over the banisters—."

  He paused.

  Something rasped in the other's throat.

  "Well?"

  Craig said gently:

  "I saw you come out from the passage, through the double doors and into the hall."

  "Querrin and Lawrence both swore—."

  "That nobody passed them in the corridor. I know. Please don't quibble. I also know why they didn't see you." Craig was brisk. "Let's continue. I watched you leave. Then," he smiled broadly, "I went back to my room, locked the door, and climbed into bed. I needed time to think."

  "That's your evidence?"

  "Yes."

  "And for a price, you'll suppress it?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. I agree."

  The reply had over-tones of relief.

  Uncle Russ seemed amused.

  He said unexpectedly:

  "You think you've beaten me, don't you?"

  "What?" The other was caught off balance.

  Craig continued:

  "I'm not a fool. I've made false statements to the police, but not under oath. So far I haven't committed myself. But if I perjure myself this afternoon, I weaken my position. To-day, I can give you away. Next year, I can't. You're counting on that. Aren't you?"

  "I—I don't understand."

  "Come now." Craig grinned unsympathetically. "I can't make myself an accessory after the fact. I don't want my neck in a noose."

  "So?"

  The word held menace.

  "You'll have to help me."

  Craig slipped his free hand into the inside pocket of his coat and extracted a thin sheaf of folded papers.

  He said:

  "Read this."

  He tossed the papers into the other's lap.

  The pages rustled gently.

  Craig watched his companion warily.

  The reaction came swiftly. "This is a confession!"

  "Yes," returned Uncle Russ, politely. "In your name. Read it, please. I had to use my imagination in places. But I think you'll find it essentially accurate."

  There was a laugh.

  "I'm to put my name to this? You must think I'm a fool."

  "No," replied Craig equably. "But you will do as I wish."

  There was another silence while the other read swiftly.

  Then:

  "So you know that, too?"

  "Oh, yes," said Craig. "I've omitted nothing."

  The papers rustled angrily.

  "I can't sign this."

  "You will sign," returned Craig gently, "every page."

  There was menace in the room. It seeped round the shadows, and flared up with the lighted lamp. Lawrence, peering through the crack between the drawn curtains, watched the old rogue curiously. He noted, without surprise, that in spite of the tension betrayed by the beading of sweat at his hair-line, Uncle Russ was enjoying himself immensely.

  Craig held the gun with unwavering steadiness.

  He said:

  "I need your confession, for obvious reasons. I don't intend to be your third victim. And I shan't allow my part in this affair to be known by the police. If at any time you fail to provide my—ah—allowance, those papers will be despatched—anonymously—to New Scotland Yard."

  "I could still name you an accessory."

  "How," inquired Craig politely, "could you prove it? "

  There was no reply.

  Uncle Russ said smoothly:

  "With those papers in my possession, I shall have nothing to fear. From you, or the Director of Public Prosecutions."

  The other said flatly:

  "I won't sign."

  "The choice is yours." The old rogue shrugged delicately. "Either you put your name to that confession or I tell the Coroner everything." Craig chuckled. "The true story of this crime should make a bigger sensation than any fantasy I've advanced myself."

  He added:

  "I shall make an excellent witness."

  "You—."

  The other's arm jerked upwards.

  Craig thrust the pistol forward. He snapped:

  "No abuse, please." He relaxed. "And no violence." He finished benignly: "Though I could handle you well enough."

  His voice hardened once more.

  "Have you made your decision?"

  There was a moment of terrible calm. Then a pen scratched furiously over the surface of the papers.

  Craig chuckled wordlessly.

  Outside in the garden, Lawrence looked at Peter. Querrin had heard every word. His face had gone white, and bloodless.

  Lawrence swung back to the curtains. His body tensed.

  Uncle Russ inquired:

  "Have you finished?"

  "Yes." The response was quiet and resigned, yet with strange undertones. "Here."

&
nbsp; Somebody moved in the dusky room. Lawrence saw Craig's eyes flicker briefly as his companion stood up with the signed confession. The other said gently:

  "Take it."

  As Craig grasped the papers, his gaze shifted down involuntarily. In that brief moment, the killer was on him like a wildcat.

  Two desperate hands clutched at the gun in his fist, seizing the pistol by muzzle and butt. Craig felt the automatic turn out, around, and in, trapping his finger in the trigger guard.

  He shrieked with pain.

  The pressure eased, then a blow crashed into his already contorted face. He lurched to the floor, only half conscious.

  "Now!"

  The other's eyes were steely. The gun swung up, reversed in a merciless hand.

  It clubbed down viciously.

  For a long second, Lawrence felt paralysed with fear and shock. Then as Uncle Russ went down, the young man wrenched aside the curtains and hurled himself at the old man's attacker.

  He grabbed the killer's wrist, and wrenched with all his strength. The gun butt missed Craig's temple by a hair's-breadth.

  The force of the onslaught carried Lawrence on to the other's back. They rolled over together, struggling wildly.

  The pistol, jarred from the killer's hand, slid over the floor; and struck against Querrin's shoe as he came through the windows from the garden.

  Lawrence's head crashed against the table leg. The lighted lamp rocked crazily.

  His senses reeling, the young man pulled himself up.

  His adversary, standing also, met him with a dead face.

  Lawrence couldn't afford to be squeamish. He lifted his leg, stepping inside the other's crotch. The killer was thrown to the ground with Lawrence on top.

  Algy tucked his opponent's toe under his own left arm, then turned the other over with his body, sitting in and locking the fallen one's leg over his own. He lay back and applied pressure.

  He gasped: "For your own sake, keep still!"

  The command was not obeyed. The killer struggled in a frenzied bid for escape. Lawrence gritted his teeth. He heard a choked cry of agony, then the other lay still.

  Lawrence wiped the sweat from his forehead. He didn't feel happy: he hated violence.

  He looked round for the gun.

  It was in Peter's hand.

  Querrin came forward slowly. One curtain had been swept fully aside, and the daylight streamed in behind him.

  Lawrence said queery: "Give me the pistol."

  Peter Querrin shook his head. An odd smile drifted over his mouth. He said:

  "No."