The Case of the Platinum Blonde: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  “Finished?” Santon asked ironically.

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “What a lot of damn nonsense,” Santon said, and his lip drooped. “I call out from just outside this door? Why, Chevalle knows perfectly well that I was in the garage. He saw me.”

  “No he didn’t,” Wharton said. “What he saw was a dummy of some sort you’d rigged up under the running board. The dummy you chucked in the garage pit when he’d gone in the house, and the one you burnt in that bonfire you started as soon as you were sure we’d all gone.”

  “Guy Fawkes’ stuff, eh?” The lip drooped again. “And I suppose I wasn’t talking from the garage!”

  “You were talking from just outside this door,” Wharton said. “A schoolboy could have rigged the contraption up. Probably the same sort of apparatus you used in that treasure hunt at your Wings for Victory week. Just a speaker and amplifier and all worked through the wireless in the back of your car.” His tone changed to the grim again. “I say you spoke from here, and your voice sounded to Chevalle as if it came from the garage. And so it did. To Mrs. Chevalle it came from here. To Chevalle it came from the garage, especially when he saw what he took to be you, lying under that running-board.”

  “Well, it’s ingenious,” Santon said, and as if mildly bored. “I’ll certainly say that for it. What next?”

  Wharton was losing. I felt it. He was like an actor who feels the imminence of the bird, and after he has tried every histrionic device in his mental repertoire. Maybe Santon felt it too.

  “Well, what next?” he said again.

  “Next?” said Wharton lamely. “The next thing is for you to make a statement.”

  “Perhaps I might say something,” I said, and my eyes met Santon’s. A new opponent, even if it was myself, didn’t look so good.

  “You remember, Wharton, how you called for me at Ringlands and I wasn’t there that morning?”

  “Yes,” he said playing up.

  “And remember how I came through the hedge and held up your car and you wondered where the devil I’d been?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how I didn’t tell you till afterwards, and how we agreed not to say a word, but to give Santon all the rope in the world and let him hang himself?”

  “I remember,” said Wharton.

  “Now you, Santon,” I said. “You remember how you were going to call for me at Ringlands one day and how I came here instead?”

  “Yes,” he said, but my God, he was puzzled!

  “The morning Mrs. Chevalle died here I was to go out with you again. Maybe I had that last occasion at the back of my mind. Maybe that’s what brought me here along that path just at the right time, instead of waiting for you at Ringlands. You see, I’d forgotten the time too. I thought it was half-past ten instead of eleven.”

  He was moistening his lips, and I knew I had him.

  “You were here?”

  “Haven’t I told you so?” I said.

  He sat without a movement for a long half-minute.

  “Well, now I’ll show you something,” he suddenly said, and was getting to his feet. He did it so unconcernedly that we merely watched him, wondering what it was that we were to see. Then with an “Excuse me,” he was opening the door.

  I told you how natural it was. It was only the slamming of the door that made our mouths gape. Then Wharton got to his feet with a bellow.

  “My God, he’s gone!”

  Through the door went Wharton and Chevalle at his heels. I made a poor third and when I was out on the path there was no sign of any of them. Wharton was shouting orders to Chevalle to head Santon off at the garage. He himself was making for the back door, through which I gathered Santon had gone. Then he was hollering to me to go to the front door.

  From there I heard him calling to Chevalle. Chevalle called back that the garage was locked and he wasn’t inside.

  “Come here and cover this door then,” Wharton told him.

  Another couple of minutes and he was round with me.

  “Inside the house, that’s where he is,” he said, and drew back and hurled his full weight at the front door. It budged never a bit and he was swearing as he rubbed his shoulder. Then something caught his eye and he was pulling a stake from the zinnia bed. A slash each way and the window was broken. In went his hand and up went the sash. Then he kicked out the broken glass and hoisted himself into the room.

  I waited a good five minutes and there was never a sound. Then at last I heard his feet on the stairs and then the front door opened and he was motioning me inside.

  “Upstairs!” he whispered. “I know the room. Let Chevalle in.”

  I made my way to the back door and whispered to Chevalle what Wharton had told me. As we came through the hall, Wharton was beckoning to us both.

  “He’s in the front room with the door locked. You watch from here Chevalle, in case he tries jumping from a window.”

  He motioned for me to follow him up the stairs, and at that very moment there was a thud, as if something had fallen from a wall. Wharton turned and his eyes met mine and for a second or two we stared at each other, listening.

  Then he was bolting up the stairs and we two at his heels. On the wide landing he turned left.

  “Both together,” he told Chevalle, and drew himself back.

  Best part of thirty stone of body weight hurled itself at that door, and it gave. A second crash and it stove in at the lock and Chevalle crashed into the room with it. Wharton kicked the hole clear and we went through.

  Santon was there all right. The heavy Webley was so tight in his hand that it would have taken some prising away. He’d made a nasty mess of his skull.

  Chevalle stood silently looking down at him. It was when his eyes rose that he saw the something on the bed—a grey against the scarlet of the bedspread. It was the back of a calendar, and pencil writing.

  I killed Maddon. Mrs. Chevalle was being blackmailed. Then she threatened to give me away if I didn’t go away with her. I killed her, just as you said.

  A.F.S.

  I read it over Chevalle’s shoulder and I felt his body tremble as if he’d suddenly gone down with fever. Then he was handing it to Wharton, and turning away. When we came at last down the stairs we found him in the lounge.

  Chevalle got up when we came in and he seemed his normal self again. Wharton was wiping his brow with that large handkerchief of his.

  “My God, it’s hot. What about finding some water while I get Chevalle to ’phone that damn doctor again.”

  I found a jug and glasses in the pantry and the water was cold in the tap. Wharton was at the ’phone with Chevalle when I got back, and when he came in again he drank two glasses straight off. Chevalle drank a glass too, and the sweat was in little beads on his forehead.

  “Well, that’s that,” Wharton said. “What about making ourselves comfortable and taking the statements down here.”

  “It’ll suit me,” Chevalle said quietly.

  “No point in wasting the tax-payers money,” Wharton said. “Get everything cleared up and I can get back to Town to-night.” I changed the cynical look on my face as he caught my eye. “Major Travers it doesn’t matter about. He’s got all the time in the world.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were here and saw everything that happened that morning,” Chevalle said to me.

  “I wasn’t,” I told him.

  “You weren’t!” He stared. “You mean it was a bluff.”

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “Suppose it hadn’t come off?”

  “Then I had another up my sleeve,” I told him. “I’d have said your wife left behind a statement.” I pulled out a wad of paper I had ready. “A statement backing up what Wharton said.”

  Wharton let out a guffaw. “And they call me a liar! My God, I’m not even a beginner.”

  He was still chuckling as he rifled Santon’s desk for paper and he also found ink and a couple of pens.

  “What about it?” h
e said. “Like me to make my statement first?”

  “I think so,” Chevalle said.

  “Well, before I begin, just a question on general principles. Everything’s over and settled. You agree?”

  “I agree.”

  “Then we’re all satisfied,” Wharton said, “and thank God it’s ended as well as it has.”

  He felt for his spectacle case, adjusted his antiquated spectacles and picked up a pen.

  It was only a quarter to four when we began those statements. At half-past the doctor came, and Wharton was in such good humour that he cracked a joke about the frequency of visits, and taking a room for him at the Wheatsheaf. Then on we went again and it was after six o’clock when everything was signed and in order.

  “What time’s there a train?” Wharton asked.

  “You might as well wait till the eight,” Chevalle said. “That will give you time for a meal. I’ll fetch you in my car at soon after half-past seven.”

  “Suits me down to the ground,” said Wharton, and stretched his legs.

  “If you like to wait a minute or two I’ll run you down to the Wheatsheaf now,” Chevalle said.

  Wharton wouldn’t hear of it. The walk back, he said, would do him good. And me too.

  “Much obliged to you, Travers, for all you’ve done,” Chevalle said, and held out his hand.

  “I told you he was a warm proposition,” chuckled Wharton.

  “A bit too warm,” I said, for I was sweating like a bull in the heat of that room. “See you again some time, Chevalle.” I made George take the path through the woods, and as we neared Ringlands tried to get him to come in. He said he was too busy, and would I make his farewells to Helen. Maybe he’d just pop down again some time to see that everything was cleared up. Then, of course, he had to start pulling my leg.

  “Can’t forget that chap Porle,” he said. “Extraordinary cove. Which reminds me. Don’t forget you owe me a drink.”

  “Do I?” I said.

  “Any time will do,” he said. “I’m bound to be seeing you in Town.” Then he was giving me a look. “I don’t know that you haven’t earned a drink yourself. You covered a lot of ground in this case.”

  “Thanks a lot, George,” I told him ironically.

  “Not that you didn’t make a few bloomers,” he was going on.

  “To err is human,” I said. “But bloomers such as what?”

  “Well,” he said, and pursed his lips while he hastily thought. “Take that photograph and that Orlando business. The damn photograph hadn’t anything to do with the case.”

  “And the next?” I said.

  “Oh, heaps,” he said, and then was giving me a nudge. “But you did pretty well. Tell you what. Here’s a little tip I’ll present you with. You can pass it on to Chevalle.”

  “Thanks very much,” I said.

  “That’s all right,” he told me generously. “It’s about Temple. I didn’t tell you, but he was suspected of doing a little housebreaking. A charge wasn’t brought because he was had well enough on the other. Now he’s a bloke who had the entry to all the big houses here-—including the very five that were burgled. See the point?”

  “I do, George,” I said, “and thanks very much. Now you can do something for me.”

  “What’s that?” he said, on his guard at once.

  “I like collecting souvenirs of crimes,” I said. “I even like souvenirs that reminds me of my bloomers, so why not give me that photograph?”

  “Yes, and twenty like it,” he said. “It’s at the Wheatsheaf. What’ll I do—drop it in at Ringlands on my way past?”

  “I don’t trust your memory,” I said. “I’ll fetch it myself.”

  “What, now?”

  “Why not?” I said. “I might as well have as much of your company as I can. Besides, I’ve got a throat on me like the Libyan Desert.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he said. “That’ll give you the chance to stand me that drink.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE OTHER ANSWER

  Two letters came for me the following morning. One was a purely business one which gave me an excuse to make my announcement to Helen, and the other was from my wife. In a month’s time she could have a clear eight days’ leave. She also said she had heard from Wharton who’d told her how fit I’d begun to look. Just like Wharton that. Irritating as blazes one minute, and then going out of his way to do a kindly turn.

  It was those two letters that finally made me make up my mind. When Helen heard I was going back to Town immediately after the next day’s inquest, she was very surprised. I gave her various reasons, including the flippant one that as there’d been three deaths since my arrival, I was proposing to decamp before the village was decimated. But I did induce her to promise to come to Town and spend a long week-end with Bernice and myself.

  It had been agreed that I should give more or less formal evidence at the inquest on Santon, to save Wharton coming down at seven that evening I rang Chevalle at Bassetts and said I wasn’t too sure about a point or two, and would he do me the favour of slipping along to Ringlands after dinner. It seemed to me essential that I should see him, and that was the brightest excuse I could make.

  “My legs are much older than your car,” I added as an effort at humour.

  “Glad to come,” he said. “Eight o’clock suit you?”

  I said it would suit me fine. Then I told Helen, and added that we’d be talking about the inquest, which was a hint that we wouldn’t wish to be disturbed. A few minutes before eight I was in her little summer-house, listening for the sound of Chevalle’s car, and wondering for the hundredth time how to induce him to bring the ultimate conversation to the one vital point.

  “Sorry to be such a nuisance,” I said, as I opened the gate for him.

  “A pleasure, my dear fellow,” he said, and indeed he seemed genuinely pleased to be seeing me. Or was it relief that at last everything looked like being really over?

  Well, I asked a plausible question or two and received due instruction and advice. Then I told him I was going to Town immediately after the inquest, and I shouldn’t have time for a word once it was over. The one-fifteen bus was what I had in mind.

  “But I thought you were staying much longer!” he said, apparently enormously surprised.

  “I don’t know,” I said off-handedly. “Just a change of plans. I’m likely to have a job of work on my hands for another thing. A rather trying job too.”

  “Didn’t know you had to work,” he said.

  “Just discipline,” I said airily. “I take doses at regular periods. Spiritual Epsom salts.”

  He pulled out his pipe and began stoking it. I sat still, eyes across the garden, waiting for him to give me that opening.

  “You're a queer fellow, Travers,” he suddenly said.

  “Of course I am,” I said.

  “There you are,” he said, and with a humorous exasperation.

  “There I am what?”

  “Damned if I know,” he said.

  I smiled. “Two things you can’t do to me, Chevalle. You can’t pull my leg, for that was pulled out straight years ago. And you can’t give me inside information about myself. I know the cantankerous kind of cuss I am.”

  “But you’re not—exactly,” he said. Then he was shrugging his shoulders. “Ah, what the hell!”

  “Do carry on,” I told him amusedly. “There’s nothing so salutary as home truths. What’s your own particular grouse about me?”

  “It isn’t a grouse. It’s just that you’re so damnably un-get-at-able.”

  “Sphinx-like?” I said. “Or just damn superior?”

  “No, not quite that. It’s just that—well, you sometimes look as if you didn’t give a damn what everybody else thinks. You have a sort of cynical look as much as to say that if you cared to open your mouth you could put us all wise.”

  “Fine!” I had to laugh. “That’s what my wife sometimes tells me. But to be serious. Give me a particular instance of this
deplorably bad-mannered conceit of mine.”

  “I didn’t call it that,” he said. “And I don’t know that I can give you a particular instance. I do know that that was how you often struck me during the whole of this case.”

  “And why not?” I said, and realised that he had played clean into my hands. “It’s true we’re no longer a democracy, but as far as the Government allows me, I’m entitled to have my own views. Even when everybody’s against me.” I smiled. “George Wharton once said about me that the fact that there are two sides to every question means for me that it’s necessary to find a third. Take this case, for instance. Why shouldn’t I have ideas of my own. Provided, of course, I don’t thrust them on others.”

  “Contrary to undeniable facts? And everybody else’s considered opinion?”

  “Are you a crossword fan?” I asked him.

  “Occasionally,” he said. “Why?”

  “Ever try one of those super ones which The Times used to have occasionally? Two frames in which to put your solutions, but only one set of clues? In other words, each clue has two totally different answers.”

  “Too hot for me,” he said.

  “Well, you mentioned this case,” I said. “There’s a perfectly good and accepted answer to it. It’s solved. But that’s no reason why a cross-word brain like mine shouldn’t have tried another solution.”

  “And have you?”

  “I have,” I said airily. “And I’m a damn sight more pleased with my own than with other people’s.”

  He caught my eye for only a moment, and then looked away.

  “Like to hear it?” I challenged him. “It won’t take all that long. And it’s entirely without prejudice.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well,” I said, “if I’ve found a new solution, then a new somebody has to be implicated. So what I mean—and I say it only too seriously—is that the solution’s at present my private property, and it’s without any immediate risk for the person implicated.”