He made as if to continue, then shook his head.
“And now it becomes difficult for me to explain. Only the greatest of necessities would have made me commit such a—how do you say?—a thing so unpardonable, but to me it seemed such a necessity that I should conceal from you, my friend, many things which I do. But I warn you, some days ago when I say that before we finish this case, you will be angry, perhaps. More than that I cannot say, but now one can explain.
“You are a man of honour and you reveal nothing that I confide to you, and it was not of that that I was afraid. But it was possible that you should reveal something without knowing it, since you trusted implicitly this Henri Larne. There is a gesture perhaps, a look of the eyes, the answer to a question which apparently is nothing—all those would reveal to Henri Larne, and therefore to his brother, what I wish to conceal.
“You are still mystified? Then consider, my friend, that already you had begun to assure me that Henri Larne knew about his brother things which he did not wish to reveal. To myself I was forced to say that perhaps the brothers had some understanding, and I remember that if Pierre Larne knew of your hotel, and of the association between yourself and Braque, then it was only Henri who could have given the information. But you forgive these descriptions that I make on you?”
“I think you were absolutely justified,” Travers said. “Undoubtedly I should have inadvertently put Henri Larne on his guard.”
Gallois got solemnly to his feet.
“Observe this generosity,” he said in a slow, spacious English which Charles might understand. “A colleague whom I deceive, but a colleague so perfect, so magnanimous, that he accepts at once the explanations which I so badly make.”
His long arm reached out and he was shaking Travers once more by the hand.
“What I’m anxious to hear about,” said the self-conscious Travers, “is not myself but that Fécamp business. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still a muddle.”
“To that we arrive,” Gallois announced. “But first, we return to the night of the murder, where we agree that you have been brought to the flat of Braque in order that you may prove that it is at a quarter to six that he dies. And the assassin wishes that you prove this, because it is at a quarter to six that he has the alibi that is perfect. But there is something else that then occurs to me. If it is you who prove that Braque is dead at a quarter to six, then perhaps the assassin makes use of you also to prove his own alibi! And whose is the alibi that you, my friend, can prove? It is the alibi of Henri Larne. Once more, then, he comes in suspicion.”
He raised a warning finger.
“But not as the assassin of Braque. That was impossible. But then you commence to tell me other things: that Henri Larne can give also an alibi for Pierre, and again I wonder. This Henri commences to be a person of importance in the case, and he is a mystery. Why should he refuse information about Pierre, who is a parasite? I say to myself that perhaps there is much pretence and that there is even the possibility that they work together to deceive the law.
“And so I explain about Fécamp, which to you now becomes simple. This Pierre departs in the car with those who are the Gurlots, as we think, but we lose the car. Then at last I hear that a car which resembles it is seen in the late afternoon as it passes through Fécamp, and then I hear no more. But I am unquiet and then I remember my suspicions of Henri Larne, and I arrange to go with you to his hotel. He is astonished that his brother is not on the way to Grenoble and he says at last that he will accompany us to confront this so treacherous brother. But he wishes a wait of half an hour and at once I know why.
“For I arrange already that one listens to the telephone, because if what I suspicion is right, then it is necessary that he warn this Pierre. And I am right! He rings a number at Fécamp, and he says a something which is not sense but which is doubtless a signal. This number that be rings is sent to the authorities at Fécamp, so that they verify, but the half-hour is already over and we must depart. So it is at Rouen that I learn that one has traced the number and I instruct that François watches the house. Then later on our journey I leave the car and I telephone again and one tells me precisely where one finds this house.”
Travers had been bursting to say something, and now he got his question in.
“So that was why you pretended the wire of the telephone had been cut as early as dusk?”
“Precisely. I must assure Henri Larne that I am a fool, and it is essential also that he does not suspect that I think that it is he who has warned Pierre.”
“And what actually happened at Fécamp, in that house?”
“At the moment I have not a certainty, but I think perhaps that it is this. When Pierre is warned, he announces that they must go to England in the motor-boat, and he abandons his own belongings. Moulins is carried to the boat and Pierre and the woman depart with him. But Pierre has contrived to make a hole in the boat, and at a certain moment he abandons the boat and returns to the shore in the dinghy, which has oars. The woman shrieks, perhaps, but who is to hear? In a minute the boat sinks and she is drowned, and Moulins also.
“But as he approaches the shore, Pierre observes the torch of François. So he abandons the small boat and makes a circle and attacks François. Then he takes the car and his belongings, and is gone.
“But even now, when I know that Henri has warned Pierre, what can I do? Henri has this alibi which proves that he himself did nothing. All I can do is to hope that we arrive at Pierre and force that he reveals what he knows. But one continues still to listen to the phone of Henri, and in the suite which adjoins his own I place a man who can both see and hear. This evening, by example, I know that you talk with him, and there is reported to me every word that you say. That, my friend, is why I seek you at the rue Vagnolles, where there is a picture of which you have talked much to Henri Larne.
“But we return. There was the death of Moulins and I discover who that he is, but I am an imbecile and I do not see that everything at once is changed, and that it is he who is of the importance. But this morning Henri Larne goes to Neuilly, and there he phones, and the call is traced. Pierre is found and he is followed to Paris, where one makes the arrest. But he protests that he has done nothing, and I imagine to myself that it is necessary to await the body of Hortense Gurlot. Then, my friend, when I am in this labyrinth, it is you who extricate me.”
He was getting to his feet.
“And now what remains? That we celebrate this so happy conclusion? But to-morrow, perhaps, for to-night one must obtain the confession of these Larnes.”
“Yes,” said Travers. “To-morrow, perhaps, we might have some small celebration. But there’s something else to do to-night.”
Gallois looked surprised. Travers smiled.
“You, my friend, were the author and director of a certain comedy. One has played this comedy, But it is necessary that the curtain should descend with a grace, and that one should thank the actors.”
Gallois spread his hands bewilderedly.
“But what is it you wish that I do?”
Travers nodded meaningly towards Charles.
“Perhaps it is in your private ear that I can best announce that. And perhaps also I was wrong. It is not the curtain that falls, but the last scene which we are about to play.”
Gallois was still staring. Travers smiled as the door closed on Charles.
“A comedy, my dear Gallois, ends happily, and it is necessary that the audience should be happy also.”
It was ten minutes before Charles returned, and now he was told to stand just away from the desk. A gendarme was at his elbow, and on the face of the supposed suspect was a look of patient misery, but his fingers twiddled nervously the cap which he held in his hand. Then Gallois ordered the woman Moulins to be brought in.
A quick look towards Charles, and she was approaching the desk. Gallois got to his feet.
“Elise Moulins, it is for the last time that you appear. The assassin of Braque has been apprehe
nded. Regard the law henceforth, I beg of you, as your friend. That your affairs have been upset is regrettable, but there will be recompenses which doubtless will be made.”
“Et mon frère?” she asked timidly.
Gallois looked down on her with eyes that had in them a pity and a sympathy that were profound.
“I myself will arrange that, as a friend.”
He gave a little bow and resumed his seat.
“But there is another affair which remains. The accused, Charles Rabaud, is known to you?”
She nodded nervously, eyes once more full of fright.
“It is he who in your presence struck an agent that night in the rue Jourdoise, and then escaped?”
The eyes of Charles were patiently downcast. That snub nose of his gave a something pathetic to his misery, and there was once more that overwhelming resemblance to Gallois himself, Elise gave one quick look and then was shaking her head.
“It is not he.”
Gallois stared in astonishment.
“Are you sure of it?”
“I am sure,” she said. “It was not he.”
Gallois let out a breath, stared bewilderedly· at Travers and got to his feet again. There he stood for a long while, and when at last his smile came, it came reluctantly.
“All that remains once more is to offer regrets. You can both depart.”
“One moment,” said Travers, and was rising suddenly from his chair. “There is a favour I demand of M. the Inspector I employ this Charles during my stay, but in a week the employment comes to an end. I want to inform you that he is of an exceptionally good character and of an unusual intelligence. But, unfortunately, I cannot take him to England.”
“You suggest what, monsieur?”
“That he is one for whom the law might find a more permanent employment. It is I who recommend him. I assure you that he is the type that one would surely desire.”
Gallois was shaking his head, and then all at once was shrugging his shoulders.
“Very well,” he said, and not without amusement. “One makes mistakes and it is necessary to pay. And you, mon garçon, you have heard the admirable description that your employer gives. You desire, perhaps, to present yourself here tomorrow, so that one may examine and perhaps arrange?”
The eyes of Charles rose.
“Yes, monsieur, if it pleases you and M. le patron.”
“Leave, then, your particulars at the bureau,” Gallois said, and waved the intimation to depart.
The door closed. Gallois was silent for a moment, then all at once he laughed! It was the laugh of a moment or two, but to Travers it was a tremendous event. But hardly before he could stare, Gallois was getting to his feet again.
“The curtain falls, then,” he said, “and the audience departs happy.”
“I must be departing too,” Travers said, “or my wife will be worrying herself again.”
“You permit that I arrange a car?”
“I don’t know,” Travers said. “There’s a lot of things I’d like to think over. If it’s a fine night I might walk after all.”
He was drawing back the curtain to look at the weather, and then his eyes fell on the street below. Then something caught his puzzled attention.
“Come here a moment,” he said to Gallois. “It rather looks to me as if the curtain has not fallen after all.”
Across the street, Charles was waiting beneath a lamp-post. Gallois smiled at the sight of him, and the recalling of the last few minutes.
“It is you who commence to spoil him,” he said. “It is not good to praise the young.”
“And what of yourself?” Travers challenged him. “Don’t you—”
His hand closed on Gallois’ arm. A girl was running quickly across the road beneath them, and dodging a taxi, and reaching the lamp-post where Charles waited. He went a yard or two to meet her. They linked arms, and one could see all their excited happiness. Then they moved off along the pavement and were lost to sight. Travers let the curtain fall.
“Voilà, mon ami. The comedy is indeed played, but it is a romance that begins.”
Gallois frowned for a moment, then the humour of things came back, and he was near to laughing again.
“When one is young,” he said, and took Travers by the arm.
“Yes,” said Travers. “When one is young. In those days perhaps you also had your affairs?”
“Perhaps—but one only,” said Gallois slowly. “In this supreme moment of our friendship, it is something that I confess. But it was not a comedy. It commenced perhaps by what you call romance, and then—”
He shrugged his shoulders for the rest. Travers drew him to a halt by the door.
“And in this moment of our friendship, it is permitted that I ask a question?”
“There is nothing, my friend, that you cannot ask.”
“Then this romance. There was perhaps a nose that was—retroussé?”
“With you and me, who have a friendship so exceptional, there are questions of which one divines already the answers.”
For a moment there had been in his look some tragedy of remembrance, but now he was shrugging his shoulders, and in his eyes was all the old affection and something even of humour.
“As for this Charles, and this Elise, they live in the present. It is only the past that persists.”
Once more his hand went out. Travers grasped it warmly, and in the brief moment he thought of many things. There was a morning in the Tate Gallery, the sprawling figure of the dead Braque, the white ghastliness of the face of Moulins, and all the embittered tragedy of Henri Larne. But it was of the lovers in the lamplight that he thought last.
“Yes,” he said. “To them the present, and to you and me the past. And the best is still left. The future, my friend—for them and for us all.”
About The Author
Christopher Bush was born Charlie Christmas Bush in Norfolk in 1885. His father was a farm labourer and his mother a milliner. In the early years of his childhood he lived with his aunt and uncle in London before returning to Norfolk aged seven, later winning a scholarship to Thetford Grammar School.
As an adult, Bush worked as a schoolmaster for 27 years, pausing only to fight in World War One, until retiring aged 46 in 1931 to be a full-time novelist. His first novel featuring the eccentric Ludovic Travers was published in 1926, and was followed by 62 additional Travers mysteries. These are all to be republished by Dean Street Press.
Christopher Bush fought again in World War Two, and was elected a member of the prestigious Detection Club. He died in 1973.
By Christopher Bush
and available from Dean Street Press
The Plumley Inheritance
The Perfect Murder Case
Dead Man Twice
Murder at Fenwold
Dancing Death
Dead Man’s Music
Cut Throat
The Case of the Unfortunate Village
The Case of the April Fools
The Case of the Three Strange Faces
The Case of the 100% Alibis
The Case of the Dead Shepherd
The Case of the Chinese Gong
The Case of the Monday Murders
The Case of the Bonfire Body
The Case of the Missing Minutes
The Case of the Hanging Rope
The Case of the Tudor Queen
The Case of the Leaning Man
The Case of the Green Felt Hat
The Case of the Flying Donkey
The Case of the Climbing Rat
The Case of the Murdered Major
The Case of the Kidnapped Colonel
The Case of the Fighting Soldier
The Case of the Magic Mirror
The Case of the Running Mouse
The Case of the Platinum Blonde
The Case of the Corporal’s Leave
The Case of the Missing Men
Christopher Bush
The Case of the Climbing Rat
An attendant had come in with the cage. He scooped and held the rope taut. The cage door was opened, Jules called from high in the roof and at once the rat began to climb. Then something went wrong. All at once Auguste scampered down and shot back into his cage.
When Ludovic Travers arrives in the South of France to say a few well-chosen words to his wife’s shady relative, Gustave Rionne, he finds them unnecessary: a knife-thrust a few minutes before had put an end to Rionne’s career.
Also down on the Riviera, on business connected with the notorious murderer Bariche, is Inspector Gallois of the Sûreté. Joining forces, they are soon confronted with a second even more baffling murder. What is the connection, if any, between the two crimes? Who are the masked trapezists in the circus, and what is the significance of their performing rat? The car smash—was it deliberate? Had Madame Perthus been Letoque’s lover? Ludovic Travers has been involved in some curious cases but none so strange and absorbing as that of the Climbing Rat.
The Case of the Climbing Rat was originally published in 1940. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
CHAPTER I
GALLOIS ANTICIPATES
Laurin Gallois was not working that evening, even if he was in his room at the Sûreté. Charles Rabaud, the young secretary and right-hand man, was working busily enough, but the Inspector was leaning back in his chair at the handsome desk, a pencil in his long, sensitive fingers, and a smile, more than ever gently melancholy, on his sensitive lips.
To his intimates, and to Ludovic Travers in particular, Gallois was always claiming that in him were found two wholly different men. Travers was ready enough to agree; indeed, he would have gone further and admitted that he was three. There was Gallois the man of action, brilliant in deduction, tenacious of purpose, and quivering with the sensibility that a case worth his while would invoke. But there was also the Gallois who was bored by the drab routine of ordinary work, whose keen brain felt stifled and hampered by the merely everyday, and who found official forms and documents nothing but a series of emetics.
The Case of the Flying Donkey: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 20