The Case of the Flying Donkey: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  Not that Travers was in the least annoyed. He was rather disposed to put some blame on himself, and a failure to get clean under the hide of one who was so eccentric in his methods as Gallois. And in good time, he presumed, he would at least be vouchsafed by Gallois some real and comprehensible reason for the eccentricities. Meanwhile it was a fine morning, and the case could rest in Gallois’ own hands, so the Traverses took a taxi to the Bois, and walked and lunched there, and it was not till two o’clock that they returned to the hotel.

  Bernice then had an engagement, but Travers was content to spend the afternoon before the fire with a book. Just when he was wondering if he should have an early tea, Charles appeared. He had come, it appeared, merely to kill time or to satisfy his conscience.

  “Nothing new has happened?” Travers asked him.

  “Nothing,” Charles said. “One has examined the finger-prints on the articles that M. Gallois brings back from Fécamp, but they tell us nothing.”

  “Apparently everything now depends on you,” Travers told him amusedly. “Which reminds me. Was your friend Elise properly impressed at the sight of me yesterday evening?”

  “She thinks that you have a face that is very kind,” Charles said. “She agrees with me that you have a good heart. She says also that you have an air of much intelligence, like a professor, but I do not agree. It is necessary that she should think you are rich, and perhaps kind, but not that you are clever.”

  Travers laughed. “So long as you insist that I’m also virtuous, I don’t mind about the rest. You, I take it, are still occupying the kitchen?”

  Charles looked the least bit self-conscious.

  “Now I am employed, I obtain very soon a room that is nearer than Belleville.”

  Travers smiled bewilderedly. “I still can’t quite make out why you’re going to all this trouble to convince that girl that you’re what you are not.”

  Charles seemed rather hurt at that, and he smiled with a sad reproof that gave him once more that extraordinary resemblance to Gallois.

  “You have read Monsieur Lecoq? You remember the pretended Mai, and that for months, even when he was unobserved, he was indeed the artist of the circus that he claimed to be?”

  “I remember it well,” admitted Travers. “But books and real life are no comparisons.”

  Charles gave that attractive smile of his own.

  “You remember then, monsieur, a certain poor but honest man who asked help of you in the rue Jourdoise, and how even the driver of the taxi was deceived?”

  “Yes,” said Travers, “You’ve got me there. But has she told you anything else about Braque?”

  “It is a subject which is painful,” Charles said. “Naturally she does not wish to recall episodes which may be distasteful to me also.” He shook his head, then went on almost defiantly. “In these affairs one must proceed with—”

  “With patience and finesse,” interrupted Travers. “It is a phrase with which I am becoming well acquainted. But, as I was asking, you are learning nothing at all?”

  “I hear all about her family but never about Braque. He is something of which she does not wish to be reminded. Even that picture—you know about the picture?”

  “You mean the one she offered to sell Braque? The one, you might say, that first made them acquainted?”

  “That is the picture, and now it reminds her of Braque and she wishes again to sell it. I say that it is wrong to sell the only thing one has belonging to an only brother.”

  “What sort of a picture is it?” Travers asked.

  Charles grimaced. “As monsieur already knows, I am ignorant about pictures. This one is the head of a man. It is perhaps expressive, but—”

  “In other words, you don’t care a lot about it.” Then he was frowning. “That old professor we saw, he had a very high opinion of her brother’s work, but, of course, you weren’t able to tell her that.” He frowned to himself again. “I don’t know that I wouldn’t like to have a look at that picture myself. If she really wants to sell it, and I like it—”

  Charles was getting excitedly to his feet.

  “But why not see the picture? I will arrange.”

  “Gently, gently,” said Travers. “I’m not going to have you commit me to anything in order that you may ingratiate yourself with this Elise. All you’re at liberty to say is that you knew I was a collector of pictures and so you mentioned her picture to me. Then I said you might bring it for my inspection.”

  Charles shook his head.

  “But, monsieur, she would not do things like that. It is better that you present yourself at her apartment. It is I who will arrange everything.”

  “You will accompany me?”

  “But certainly.”

  Travers shook his head. “But I still don’t want to go to her apartment.”

  Charles spread his hands imploringly.

  “But, monsieur, this is an opportunity that will never again present itself. I assure you it is perfectly natural that you go with me to the apartment. She will think—”

  “Very well,” cut in Travers, and grimaced. “Get it arranged when I’m to come, and let me know.”

  Charles departed like a schoolboy going to a treat. Travers had merely in the back of his mind the idea that in a day or two, maybe, Charles would suggest a suitable time for the proposed visit, and the wind was taken clean out of his sails when he appeared again that same evening, just after dinner. Travers gave a somewhat sketchy explanation to Bernice, and was only too conscious of the fact that Elise had been the least bit over-emphasized.

  “I never did quite understand that joke about Charles,” Bernice said frowningly. “And, darling, why do you want to buy the picture?”

  “I don’t,” protested Travers. “All the same, I’m always ready to pick up a bargain.”

  “You’re sure it isn’t some horrible plot!” said the suddenly alarmed Bernice. “There was that other dreadful affair when you went to see that man Braque.”

  Travers assured her that the visit was as safe, and the locality as public, as Bond Street.

  It was a fine night and Charles said it might look strange if he drove the car in mufti as he was, and it was also not worth the trouble of a taxi. Almost at once he was turning into a side street along which they proceeded for a good half-mile. Then he was moving off to the right again, through an ill-lighted passage, then into a narrow, gloomy street, and so through a passage again to what looked like a dark cul-de-sac. Travers was leaving the cobbled road for the greater comfort of the narrow pavement, when Charles announced that they had arrived.

  “Not a very salubrious district?” whispered Travers.

  Charles’s shrug of the shoulders seemed to ask what was it that Travers had expected. Then he was pushing open a door and turning on the light. Travers saw ahead a steep flight of dirty-looking stairs, and when he had come to the landing above them, Charles switched off the light and switched on another. They mounted more stairs, and it was when they were almost at the top that a slit of light suddenly appeared, as if a door had partly opened.

  “C’est toi, Charles?”

  “Oui, c’est moi—et monsieur le patron.”

  The door opened and a light flooded the top landing. As Elise drew back to let the two men pass, Travers had a good view of her. There seemed a vast difference from when he had first seen her in Larne’s studio that night. All that assurance, that air of petulance and bravado which, according to Charles, had been her armour of defence, had certainly gone, and had left merely a woman, but a decidedly attractive one at that.

  “Enter, monsieur,” she said to Travers. “I am very grateful that you should come.”

  “It is I who am grateful,” he told her, eyes already searching the walls. It was a look which she misinterpreted.

  “One is not too comfortable here,” she said apologetically. “But when one has not too much money, one lives where one can.”

  “But to me it has the air of being very comfortable,”
protested Travers. “It is a room that does you credit.”

  She seemed pleased at that, though she shook her head.

  “I did not wish that you should trouble yourself, but it was M. Charles who assured me that you would wish to come yourself.”

  Charles cut in hastily with the indication of a chair on which Travers must sit, and he took up his position behind it rather like a footman at the elbow of some important diner.

  “And this is the picture of which you wish to dispose?” asked Travers, craning his neck to look at it.

  “That is the picture,” she said. “It was given by my brother who also painted it. At the time I was only a girl.”

  Travers swivelled round in his chair, polished his glasses and looked at it from where he sat, which was within about six feet. It was an oil, some eighteen inches by twelve; the head of a man, as Charles had said, and in a style that recalled Van Gogh. But it was a hasty bit of work, and in many ways curious. It looked like a portrait of a not too interesting subject, and Travers was feeling in all sorts of minds about it. He could discern a merit, and the picture in some ways attracted him, and yet he was aware that his knowledge was scarcely equal to a real judgment of the picture’s value, even within the scope of the exceedingly modest price he was likely to be asked.

  There was much more he would like to know about it, he thought, and then was realizing that there were things perhaps that she would not care to discuss in the presence of Charles. There was a certain restraint already that he could feel in the room, and it went beyond a mere respect for his own silence.

  “Your brother had certainly a talent,” he pronounced.

  Then he was feeling in his pocket and making a gesture of annoyance.

  “I have no cigarettes. Go along at once, Charles, and buy some.”

  “Monsieur will pardon, but I myself have—”

  “They are not those that I prefer,” Travers told him curtly. “And hurry, please. One cannot waste the time of mademoiselle all night.”

  The door closed on Charles, and he smiled friendlily at the watchful Elise.

  “There are things perhaps which one does not wish all the world to know. This picture that your brother painted, why was it that it was not purchased by a dealer of the knowledge of M. Braque?”

  Her cheeks coloured, but she made no hesitation about telling him.

  “But he did wish the picture.” She shook her head as if wondering how to make herself clear. “I offer it to him and he says perhaps he can sell. Then he brings it back and says he one day may have a client. Then later he comes here and says he changes his mind and he will buy the picture. But I am angry and I also do not then wish the money, and I do not sell. He begs of me but I do not sell. Then he changes his mind and he says he does not wish the picture, and he makes me promise if I will sell, it will be to him.”

  Her checks flushed again.

  “Then after we quarrel he comes here and I refuse to let him enter. I say it is all finished and I will never see him again, and that if he is an annoyance, I will tell the police. Then he pretends not to be angry and he asks only if I will sell the picture. I refuse and he says it does not matter. Then he goes away and I do not see him again. But I think perhaps that he will try and steal the picture, and I hide it. Then when he is dead, I hang it again there.”

  Travers nodded, but inwardly he was extraordinarily puzzled.

  “It sounds to me as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether the picture was worth anything or not. And you yourself have had it for a long time?”

  Then she began telling him about her brother, and how she thought that during his last few years in France he had managed to exist by painting portraits, like the one on the wall. Most of the money had gone on drink, and when he disappeared she could only think he was dead. It was quite a shock when she heard five years ago that he had died in Algiers. Some time she was hoping to go there and learn more, but unhappily she had lost the letter that the priest had sent.

  Then she was listening, for there was the sound of feet on the stairs. But there was the sound of voices also, and one of them was the angry voice of Charles. Then the feet began to mount, the arguing voices still going on. Elise had got frightenedly to her feet.

  “What is happening?”

  “It is nothing,” Travers said, but he was already at the door. But he opened it only for Charles to enter, and with him, holding his arm, was a burly man whom Travers had never seen. Far down the stairs other voices could still be heard.

  “What is it?” demanded Travers.

  The two began to talk at once. Then Charles got in ahead. He was returning with the cigarettes, he said, when he was stopped by the police and asked where he was going. He explained all, and then was requested to return in the company of the agent.

  The agent, who had listened stolidly enough, was producing his credentials, and handing them to Elise.

  “Sit down,” he said curtly to Charles. “And you also, monsieur.” His hand went out for the credentials again. “You are Elise Moulins, known as Deschamps?”

  Her whole expression had changed. There was the hard look again, and a defiance that had also a touch of despair.

  “Yes, but there is nothing that I have done.”

  The agent shrugged his shoulders. “That is not my concern. You will accompany me, if you please.” He looked round at the two men. “My instructions were to bring also everyone who was here. Your name is?”

  “Rabaud—Charles Rabaud.”

  That the agent was a party to the comedy, Travers was well aware, but the name was written down.

  “Occupation?”

  “I am the chauffeur of this gentleman. But I also protest. There is nothing—”

  “Un peu de silence!” the agent told him curtly. “And you, monsieur?”

  Travers gave his particulars, which were written down.

  “And monsieur desires also to protest?” asked the agent ironically.

  “At the right time and place,” Travers assured him. “Meanwhile, if it is by the orders of M. Gallois that you act, he is not unknown to me.”

  “In this life,” the agent told him philosophically, “one is known to everyone else. That is an affair which will doubtless arrange itself. And now we will go. The apartment will be guarded till we return.”

  He waited while she fetched a hat and coat from the bedroom, and then the party of four made its way down. A car was standing by the door. Travers was instructed to sit in front with the driver, and another agent sat in the back between Charles and Elise. Then, to Travers’s amazement, the first agent jumped on the running board, and the car moved off.

  The three had been in the silence of the waiting-room for about five minutes when feet were heard in the passage outside, and the gendarme on duty went to the door. A voice was heard demanding M. Travers, and in a moment Travers was being shepherded along a corridor, and then a second, till a door was opened and he was in the room of Gallois.

  Gallois came forward, hand outstretched, and there was a warmth in his smile.

  “My friend, you forgive this comedy which it is still necessary that we should play? But I need you urgently and I ring your hotel, and madame your wife assures me that you have just departed with Charles to view a picture. And now you understand?”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for,” smiled Travers. “But you wanted me urgently, you said?”

  Gallois explained. That night at Fécamp had been a night of gales, and the papers reported more than one boat missing and lives lost. But that morning the body of a man had been washed ashore near St. Valéry, and Gallois wanted to take no risks. Even if it were a thousand to one against, he still wanted to be sure the man was not Bertrand.

  “But M. Larne can identify Bertrand,” pointed out Travers.

  “Of that I am not sure,” Gallois said. “This man wears a beard and he has not the appearance of Bertrand such as we imagine it. And even if M. Larne identifies the man as Bertrand Gurlot, that is n
ot what we so urgently desire. What is important is that we discover if this drowned one was an associate of Braque, which is why I send for the woman Moulins.”

  Before the puzzled Travers could utter a word of comment, there was a rap at the door.

  “Send the woman Moulins,” Gallois said, and then was smiling Travers to a chair.

  Almost at once Elise was encoring. Travers felt an overwhelming pity for her as she stood there with frightened eyes on Gallois. But Gallois was going to meet her, and his eyes had a pity too. He was distressed, he said, to disarrange her affairs, but all that was required of her was her help. There was a drowned one, an unfortunate who had been recovered by the police, and who might have been an associate of Braque. All that was desired was that she should look at him and say if she recalled his face.

  His hand fell gently on her shoulder.

  “It is an affair of perhaps a minute. All that then remains is to reconduct you to your apartment.”

  She was moistening her lips. She made as if to speak, and then was shaking her head.

  “There is something you desire to say?” Gallois asked her gently.

  She shook her head again, and then the words came.

  “And M. Rabaud. He also has done nothing?”

  “Nothing in the world,” he assured her. “This gentleman explains your M. Rabaud. And now?”

  He was leading her through the door and into the corridor. In a moment the three were in a bare room, where there was a table on which lay something covered with a sheet. A man whom Travers took to be a surgeon stood by it, and Gallois nodded to him as he came in. Then he was moving back the sheet from the head, and it was with eyes of horror that Travers saw the white emaciated face against the greyish black of the unkempt beard.

  “Courage,” Gallois said. “Approach, if you please. You recognize this man?”

  She gave one nervous look and then was shaking her head.

  “Regard once more,” Gallois said gently. “You are surer”

  She shook her head again.

  Gallois drew back the sheet and nodded to the surgeon. Once more he took Elise by the arm as if to lead her away, then at the door he changed his mind.