The Case of the Running Mouse: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  Back in the drawing-room, as it was called—I’d have called it a lounge—I ran my eye over the bureau.

  “Mind if I open it?” I said.

  He looked surprised at that and even more so when I manipulated my piece of wire and drew the lid down. As I had tight-fitting leather gloves on I did the searching of the drawers.

  Inside half an hour the bureau had been gone through with a small-toothed comb. We found correspondence from O’Clauty, and copies of her letters to him, and notes from the brokers about investments, and every kind of oddment, but never a cheque book with counterfoils that might be of any use to us. The last one of all ended towards the middle of January.

  “That proves nothing,” I said. “The blackmail payments might only have just begun. Or they needn’t have begun at all. It’s the first blackmailing demand that’s always the greatest shock. Maybe she’d refused to pay and that’s why he—or she—made her go for an interview, just to get her into line.” Then I gave him a shrewd look. “I suppose, by the way, that she couldn’t have been protecting you?”

  “Who should want to blackmail me?” he said.

  I shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t for me to say that I’d overheard Lulu talking about blackmail.

  “What’s worrying you?” he said.

  I suppose my face had looked rather worried, for I’d been suddenly wondering if it had been Lulu who had listened behind that door at Worrack’s flat that morning, and if so, where could I fit her in.

  “Nothing’s worrying me,” I said. “All the same I’d very much like to know what money she had with her when she left for Ireland. Sure you won’t see her bank manager?”

  He said perhaps he would.

  “Just hint as to how you’re worried about her,” I said, “and say you’re on the point of going to the police. After all, it isn’t a lot for him to reveal.”

  But he wouldn’t commit himself to anything further, so I closed the bureau again. At least I shut the lid, for when I tried to manipulate the lock it was beyond me. But I didn’t tell him I’d learned only half of the trick and I left him to think it was locked.

  “There’s only one vital question for us to ask ourselves,” I said, as we had a last look round. “Did she come back here at all after she left here that morning? You say that nothing’s been tampered with, so the answer’s that wherever she did go, it wasn’t to here.”

  A cruising taxi passed us as we came out to the street again, and I hailed it for Worrack.

  “Thanks a lot,” he said. “And for all you’re doing. And about to-night. Make it just before nine if you can.”

  I said my time was my own and I’d be there at a quarter to. On my way back to my flat I was thinking of that little group of people, so like in tastes and so different in themselves, and all living within walking distance of each other, with Worrack’s club the centre of the crude circle. Then I wondered about Lulu Mawne, and whether she hung out in the same neighbourhood too, and whether it was Worrack who had given her that swagger-coat.

  When I got to my room I had a final clean up for the night and then rang down for a service dinner. The sight of my wireless set started me off thinking again. For the first time in a good few weeks I’d spent a day without caring two hoots about the news. Montgomery was hard on Rommel’s heels, and the Russians were doing wonderful things, but as far as I was concerned there needn’t have been a war on at all. But I didn’t see things that way with any personal reflection on myself. After all, I’d had a busy day. But there was Worrack, who hadn’t said to me when Lulu had gone, “Damn the woman! She’s made us lose the six o’clock news.” Had Hamson listened to the news, I wondered, and I knew for a certainty that neither Barbara Grays nor Lulu Mawne had cared a couple of hoots between them. And, as I remembered, at lunch that day not one of the three had so much as mentioned the war, as a war.

  There was something, I told myself, that I had to get into my mind as part of the background of the circle with whom I would be in contact. If, of course, I undertook the case. And that, I could tell myself again, was what I had no intention of doing. It was true I had set certain enquiries in motion, but that could hardly count. And I was going to that club of Worrack’s which again might come under the heading of exploration. Then I was remembering Lulu again and trying to analyse that smile she’d given me. And I was wondering something else—if that scent of hers that afternoon had been the same as I’d caught that morning.

  CHAPTER V

  CALL IT A DAY

  As I made my way towards 72, Harcourt Gardens, I was wondering how Worrack’s patrons—guests, if you like—would find their way home in the early hours, with petrol restrictions what they were. But that, I thought, was their headache, and doubtless there were still ways and means. I found the job of getting there bad enough in the black-out, and in spite of the fact that Worrack had given me a detailed route for the very brief walk. However, I didn’t have much trouble after I’d passed the Ardrey Hotel.

  There were three entrances, Worrack had told me, and use of them was timed for the sake of economy in staff. Till ten o’clock the front door, till eleven the side door, and after that the entrance through a Car Hire and Service Garage that somehow tunnelled a way under the house at the back. That business had also been owned by Georgina Morbent.

  I went up four steps to the front door and very little could I see of what the house looked like, except that I judged that at one time it had been, and might still be, in a first-class residential area. But I didn’t look about me long, and hardly had the bell finished ringing than the door was opened.

  “Who is it, please?” a man’s voice said.

  “Blunt,” I said.

  The voice had an immediate heartiness. “Come in, Mr. Blunt. Mind the screen. That’s right, sir. This way.”

  The door closed behind me and the unknown appeared from behind the black-out screen. He was a tallish chap, wearing a dark lounge suit. His nose was slightly snub, and he was clean-shaven, and as his voice had had some Cockney quality, there were more unlikely things, I thought, than that he was an ex-petty-officer.

  “I’m Taplay, sir. George Taplay,” he said. “Got your invitation with you?” Then he was grinning. “Sorry, sir. I forgot you were a friend of the guvnor’s. This way, sir.”

  “Not very mysterious so far,” I said. “No secret panels and no high-signs.”

  “Lord bless you, no, sir,” he said. “This is a private house.”

  He didn’t even wink. He did wave round the entrance hall from which the stairs led.

  “Hamm Junction, they call this, sir. Here’s where everybody comes to through any of the doors.”

  “Who gave it that name?” I asked, as I followed him up the carpeted stairs.

  “One of the Air Officers,” he said, and grinned again. “We get lots of officers here, sir.”

  On the spacious landing at the head of the stairs he gave me some more bearings.

  “That’s the cloak-room for men, sir, and the men’s room. No charge, sir. Everything’s inclusive. Just along there is the ladies’ room.”

  I hung up my coat and hat, gave my hair a perfunctory smooth in the mirror, and then was ready for him again.

  “Through here, sir,” he said, and opened a door and ushered me through.

  It was a very large room indeed; two rooms, I should say, made into one, and a quick calculation of the size said forty foot by thirty. Covering the floor, except for a four-foot surround of unstained and polished wood, was a superb carpet. Almost in the middle of the room, though just to the right as I entered, was the usual long table and the apparatus for roulette. A card table and five chairs were in the near corner, and along the far wall were small tables and one larger one set out as if in a restaurant. In the far left corner was a small bar where a foreign-looking cove in a white jacket was polishing glasses.

  “Soft lights, but no sweet music,” I said.

  “That’s right, sir,” George said. “No music here and no danci
ng. Just a little friendly game and everything nice and comfy.” His finger was pointing. “That’s the guvnor’s room, sir.”

  The door was in the far right-hand corner, and as I looked it opened, and Lulu came out. Maybe she flounced out, for her face looked a bit set. Perhaps the scrap had gone on from where I’d interrupted it that evening. But she’d had time to get into a really taking gown of scarlet and black, well-cut but not too revealing. She didn’t look round, but went straight across the room and out by a door near the bar. George nodded back to me and I followed him. A quick tap at the door and his head was inside.

  “Mr. Blunt, sir.”

  “Good,” came Worrack’s voice, and George was ushering me in.

  “Glad you’re early,” Worrack told me. “Take a pew. And what about a drink?”

  I said it was too early, and I might have to take a cargo aboard. I was having a quick look round the room. It was about twelve foot by twenty, at least as far as the curtain which seemed to be shutting some of it off. Its air was that of an office which had been long used and had become remarkably snug. The big desk looked somehow homely, and the two easy-chairs, and the swivel chair on which Worrack sat had an old red cushion.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “About a year,” he said. “And three months in our old home.”

  Then he began telling me the lines on which the show was run. The invitations I knew about, but I didn’t know that every guest paid two quid a night, which, as George had hinted, included all drinks and refreshments. A man could drink as much as he liked provided he could carry his liquor. At midnight games closed down for a friendly drink and snack, and Worrack said that was always insisted on. It brought people together and made an excellent break. The whole show closed down at three o’clock prompt. Roulette was the main game, but poker was popular, and for that players paid five bob each for cards. No high stakes were permitted, and no play at all without the club counters, and those could be purchased only to a limit of twenty pounds per guest.

  “That’s an innovation of only three months,” he said. “We had practically no limit up till then, and allowed IOU’s where we thought we could rely on the signature. Then I found things were getting a bit out of hand, so I had a quiet word with some of the people I could trust, and we hit on the present system. I must say it works well.”

  “Strict cash and no bad debts.”

  “Only one or two,” he said. “As a matter of fact, there’re exactly three bad debts. Two were from officers; poor devils who got scuppered before they’d settled up. Those I don’t count. They’re wiped out. Then there’s Mouldy—Lewton-Molde—who still owes a matter of five hundred.” His lip drooped. “He’s not being wiped out.”

  “Haven’t you got to trust a large number of people?” I said. “What I mean is, if you were raided, that invitation stunt wouldn’t get you clear.”

  “It might help,” he said. “And nobody can claim we aren’t well conducted. Nobody gets ruined here.” He smiled amusedly as he said that.

  “And of course there’s the application of a little judicious baksheesh?”

  “But not so that you’d notice it,” he said, and gave that same amused grin. “Also the clientele is carefully chosen. A stranger can only get in on the recommendation of someone already known.”

  “And the staff? You can trust them?”

  “I think so,” he said, and then was frowning slightly. “Lulu’s been a bit restive lately. George—you’ve met him—is a topper. Jean’s all right. He’s the drinks wallah. And, by the way, we’ve got this.”

  He had swung himself to his feet and was making for the curtain. When it was drawn back I saw what looked like a smaller office. There was a closet and a wash-basin, and a huge safe. There was also a door, and it wasn’t locked, for Worrack simply turned the knob and it opened.

  “Private exit in case of a raid,” he said. “But only about half the company would use it. The rest would stay on and support the idea of a private party.”

  “Where’s this door lead to? The garage?”

  “Lord, no,” he said, and grinned. “The police’d probably follow it down to the garage where there might be some sort of cordon waiting. Those in the know would find themselves in the next house to this. That’s ours too. It’s been made into a couple of high-class flats. George and his missus occupy one, and Lulu the other.”

  When we were back in the main office he asked me if anything had happened since we’d parted. I told him it was no use being impatient, but as he’d changed to that anxious mood of his I thought I might as well ask him one or two questions.

  “About Hamson,” I said. “How long have you actually known him?”

  “About six months,” he said. “Why?”

  “How long have you been what I might call really pally?” He frowned in thought. “Probably about six weeks.”

  “You needn’t answer the next one if you don’t feel like it,” I said, “but did he ever make any kind of a set at Mrs. Morbent?”

  “Good Lord, no!” he said. “They were just friendly, the same as everybody here is friendly.”

  “And when did he show that he was smitten with Mrs. Grays?”

  “Ah, that,” he said, and frowned again. “That’d be hard to say. You know how things are. You get friendly with people, you lunch and dine together and go places, and the next thing you hear is that they’re engaged.”

  “I see,” I said. “They just sort of slipped into everything. But they aren’t engaged, though he’d like to be. Any chance of her taking him?”

  “Ask me another,” he said. “I’ve known Barbara since I was that high, but I don’t know that.”

  A buzzer went suddenly and startled me. He grinned as his hand went to the receiver.

  “No panic. It isn’t a raid. Though we have a system through the garage.”

  I could hear a faint voice but no words. Worrack gave a couple of nods and then said someone was to be shown in.

  “Mouldy wants to see me,” he said, and his eyes narrowed. “You’d better pop behind there.”

  I nipped behind the curtains and put my handkerchief over my mouth in case of a sneeze. In half a minute I heard Worrack’s, “Come in!”

  “Hallo, Moldy?” he said mildly. “How are things with you?”

  Ever so gently and with one finger I drew the edge of the curtain aside. Lewton-Molde was standing sideways to me, but I had a good look at him before letting the curtain slide back again. He was a good-looking chap, about six foot, and thin. His chin was the weak link in his face, and the one eye I saw had a baggy look. His voice had an irritating quality of preciousness, with a’s made into e’s.

  “Not too bad,” he said.

  “Well, take a pew and tell me about it,” Worrack said.

  “There’s nothing to say—really. . . . I thought I’d bring you this.”

  I heard the faint rustle of paper and guessed he was handing over a cheque.

  “Thanks, Moldy,” Worrack said quietly. “Two hundred and fifty.” A slight pause. “I suppose it’s good?”

  “What the hell are you getting at?”

  I dared not touch that curtain again, but my mind’s eye saw the shrug of Worrack’s shoulders.

  “Well, things do happen,” Worrack told him evenly, and it must have been some pertinent reference for Molde said no more. Then again there was the rustle of paper.

  “A balance of two-fifty,” Worrack said. “And now—”

  “My God, Worrack, what a bloody money-grubber you are!”

  “Am I?” Worrack told him, and with what I thought an ominous quiet. “But you didn’t let me finish, my dear Moldy. What I was going to say was, that I’m not pressing for payment of the balance.”

  “You’re cancelling it?”

  “Well, that’s what it sounded like to me.”

  “I say, that’s damn good of you.”

  “Maybe,” said Worrack. “Here’s the IOU for the two-fifty, and God help yo
u if the cheque isn’t O.K.”

  Molde took that without a murmur. A moment’s quiet and then his voice came with a tentative wariness.

  “You’re giving me the other IOU’s?”

  “Oh, no,” Worrack told him. “But I’m not pressing for payment. I’m just holding them as a guarantee of good conduct.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “What I say,” Worrack told him evenly. “I just don’t trust you, Moldy. You hate me like hell, because I’ve made you pay and I didn’t let you wriggle out of it. If you could do me a dirty trick, you would. Only, if I were you, I wouldn’t! Any trouble here of your making, and you bet your ruddy life I’d find out, and I carry out my original threat. I take these IOU’s to your father?”

  “My God, what a swine you are!”

  “Another crack like that,” Worrack told him, “and Ι’ll take them personally to-morrow.”

  I could hear him getting to his feet, and there had been such a fierceness in his tone that I risked the moving curtain. But his back was towards Molde and all I saw was his hand push back a drawer of the desk into which he had doubtless slipped those IOU’s. I let the curtain fall again.

  “Think it over,” Worrack told him calmly. “You’ll come to see that you’re getting a damn square deal.”

  I heard Molde moving towards the door, and then his voice came rather suddenly, perhaps because of the abruptness of the question.

  “Any news about Georgie?”

  “News?” asked Worrack quietly.

  “Well, people are beginning to wonder,” Molde said. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she said she’d be away a week and nobody’s heard a word about her. And there was that business I told you about.”

  “Quite a little mystery you’ve been concocting,” Worrack told him, and his voice had a dangerous sound. “You’ve been opening that mouth of yours a bit too far.”

  “God’s my witness—”

  “Shut up!” A moment and the voice was almost normal again. “What the hell’s Georgie to do with you, in any case? Her business is her own. And neither yours nor mine. And remember this. If I get wind that you’re doing any more chattering, I’ll reconsider those IOU’s. And now get to hell out of here.”