“Nevertheless he’s got something on his mind,” Wharton said doggedly. “I couldn’t have been more genial but he wouldn’t meet me half-way.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, George. Mafferty doesn’t speak the same language as you and I. He’s dyed-in- the-wool Service, and his life’s governed by it. As for having something on his mind, you might have if you guessed you were under suspicion of Ramble.”
Then he changed the subject, not wishing to seem too partisan.
“Here’s a paper I’d like you to look at, George. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but it was the private writing among Stirrop’s possessions that intrigued me. Tell me what you make of it. But first of all I should say that he must have written it on the day he was killed. You’ll gather that for yourself.”
Wharton adjusted his specs. again and began reading aloud.
Ring W.O. . . . See if Harry Cross still B.C. . . . Get ’phone num . . . (Garrison?) Weinholst but what about beard. Mention Trav. . . . Two birds one stone. After to-night.
Wharton frowned away, then read it to himself a second time. Then he waved an impatient hand.
“Don’t tell me Let me find out for myself. I’m not such a fool about the Army as you’d think.”
“Ring War Office—that’s easy. See if Harry Cross—why call him by his Christian name?”
“That shows he’s some old Army pal of Stirrop’s,” Travers said. “Someone who either soldiered with him or was out in Burma with him.”
Wharton grunted. “That’s it, is it? Harry Cross still at B.C. . . ”
“Border Command,” put in Travers. “In other words, some brass hat pal of Stirrop’s at Border Command, Beauchester.”
“H’m!” went on Wharton. “Get his phone number. Obviously in order to talk to him. Doesn’t say what about. Then what’s this Garrison? in brackets?”
“Local headquarters, where you saw the Brigadier.”
“What’s that got to do with what went before?”
“Ask me another,” Travers said. “The only thing I can think of is that he needn’t have rung W.O. to get the ’phone number of Border Command. Local Garrison H.Q. would be bound to have it.”
“Well, it’s working out,” Wharton said complacently. “Now there’s this German name—Weinholst, underlined. Any prisoner of that name in camp?”
Travers shook his head. “No, but that isn’t to say one of them hasn’t a different name from the one we’ve got on his card.”
“Several of the prisoners have beards,” Wharton said reminiscently. “We might do worse than follow that up.”
But he didn’t indicate how, as Travers somewhat cynically thought. He went on with his reading instead.
“Mention Travers. That’s you. Who to? And why?”
“Heavens knows,” Travers said. “All I do know is that he’d have been mighty glad to see me out of his camp, and—de mortuis be damned—he’d have done any dirty trick to achieve that object.” He gave a Whartonian grunt. “Such as mentioning my imperfections to Command behind my back.”
“Then who are the two birds to be killed with one stone? You’re one. Who’s the other?”
“As I see it, there weren’t two birds,” said Travers, quick as ever with a theory. “The two birds to be killed with one stone were that when he rang up Cross he could also put in some quiet word against me.”
“Really as bad as that, was he?”
Travers made a gesture of impatience.
“I thought I’d knocked that into your head, George. He was what young Pewter would elegantly call a twerp of the first water.”
Wharton gave a shrug of his shoulders.
“Well, that middle part about Weinholst doesn’t make sense to me. There’s no continuity. Why drag him in when you’re the main topic?”
“Stirrop’s brains—those he had—were woolly. They went off at tangents. He always was a muddled thinker. These notes are merely an example.”
“Well, I’ll take your word for it,” said Wharton. “Then what’s this about after to-night?”
“I don’t know,” Travers admitted. “I can guess, but that wouldn’t be much good. At a quarter to nine that night, he was having a mysterious interview with Winter. I told you he talked about people to others and I think he was going to try to get some—what he might think—damning evidence about me from Winter, ready to hand out the next day to Border Command. Hoped they’d refer back to Midland Command. As you know, that interview didn’t take place.”
That was that. Wharton asked if he might keep the paper, then tried another tack.
“Just go over quickly what happened to yourself that night. Start at when you went to your office after dinner.”
Travers went over it all again, with emphasis on that perfect alibi with which Winter had provided him. It was not till he arrived at the discovery behind Winter’s door that he was interrupted.
“Just a minute. This melted snow behind the door. Could that have blown in when Winter went out to the Commandant’s office?”
“Oh, no,” Travers said. “Winter had forgotten the time and when he saw it was a quarter to, he must have fairly shot out. The door slammed to behind him. There wasn’t a second for snow to have blown in.”
“And while he was gone? Couldn’t someone else have heard the slam and slipped in then?”
“That’s the idea,” said Travers, and his fingers went to his glasses. Then he shook his head.
“It wouldn’t take a minute to get to that office from his own. Say two minutes if he waited to see if Stirrop would turn up. And I can tell you this. When he sprinted out he was in the middle of writing a card. The ink was still wet when he got back again.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Wharton said. “We assume the man came in while you were both out. And now that list that was stolen from Winter’s room. What’s the exact use of it?”
Travers would much rather have told Wharton the use of the paper that had been stolen from his own room, and then, while he was explaining about the camp victimisation of non-Nazis, Byron and Winter turned up.
“Good Lord!” said Travers. “I ought to have been in bed half an hour ago.”
“Don’t go yet,” Byron said. “Have a drink instead.”
“You all have one with me,” Wharton said. “What’s it to be?”
The drinks were poured and glasses raised. Travers scribbled a Mess chit for Wharton to sign, and the four gathered round the fire.
“Damn-fine dinner they give you at the Golden Ball,” Winter said. “We tried it to-night.”
“The pictures any good?” asked Wharton.
“A lovely one,” Byron said. “Best spy picture I’ve seen. That chap Veidt is frightfully good. Not much in your line, sir.”
“I don’t know,” Wharton said “Mr.—I beg his pardon—Captain Travers and all of you seem to think I’m a back number. The Army hasn’t moved all that far since my day.”
“Oh, yes it has, George,” said Travers feelingly.
Wharton bridled up.
“How has it?”
Travers suddenly smiled. “Well, you’ve just stood us all a drink. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes,” said Wharton blankly.
“Well, what you did was contrary to regulations. Implicit Army Orders are that there’s to be no standing of drinks in any Mess.”
There was a laugh. Wharton laughed last.
“Good. Then you can give me back that chit I signed.”
He was pleased with himself at that.
“Still, talking of spies, there was a time when I’d have thought those yarns all bunkum. Now I’ll spin you a real yarn, and every word of it’s true. It was when I was attached to the 154th French Infantry Brigade near Messines in ’16. I began that tale to Captain Travers earlier to-night, but somehow we got off it. Well, there was a certain officer joined our little headquarters a couple of days before the attack. A very charming fellow he was . . .”
Travers stirred himself to realis
e he had dozed off. For how long he couldn’t tell, but he was in time for the dénouement.
“Now whoever would have supposed that fellow was a Hun? Even the Froggies took him as read. And every word I’ve told you is dead true.”
“Extraordinary!” Winter said.
”I don’t know,” put in Byron. “A week or so ago we had a letter from my brother who’s in France, with the Royal Sussex. He was saying . . .”
Travers had managed to get to his feet, and was beaming a sleepy good-night.
“I think I’ll leave you coves to it. Someone’s got to be up in the morning, and I reckon it’ll be me.”
CHAPTER XIII
SABBATH WELL SPENT
You may or may not remember that it was stated that to Ludovic Travers all days in No. 54 Prisoner of War Camp were alike, so that he often lost track of the week, except perhaps on Fridays, which were pay-days for troops.
Perhaps at the time you said to yourself something like this. “There’s something I can’t quite swallow. Perhaps an adjutant is a busier man than he was in my time, but I can’t exactly believe he’s as busy as all that.” Now ask yourself an honest question. But for the heading of this chapter, would you have known that when Travers woke the following morning, it was Sunday?
Travers himself didn’t realise it for a moment or two. It was just a difference in the camp sounds, and, somewhere a long way off, a tolling bell, that warned him what day it was. Then his thoughts ran on something like this. I must read up the last batch of Army Council Instructions. Wonder what Torquemada will be like in the Observer? I ought to check those P.W. accounts. Was it twelve or twelve-thirty I said I’d ring Bernice? Must have been twelve-thirty on account of taking the count. Must tell B. about Wharton. Wonder what time he got to bed last night?, etc., etc., etc.
On his way to the Mess, he looked in on Wharton. Timms, who had been assigned to him as batman, was just coming out, and there the old General was, sitting up in bed and sipping away at a cup of hot tea.
“What time did you get to bed?” Travers asked him. “You didn’t keep those people up all night?”
“They cleared off soon after you went,” Wharton said. “I turned in soon after three.”
“Three! What on earth were you doing?”
“I woke that telephone orderly in your office, had the ’phone put through to my place and then rang up a few people.”
“The devil you did!” said Travers. “Not private calls?”
“The Government pays,” said Wharton philosophically. “But as a matter of fact I kept to business. Which reminds me. Intelligence are ringing you up at nine sharp this morning. Don’t ask me what for. Sunday, isn’t it?”
“By the calendar,” Travers told him laconically.
“Any difference does it make here?”
“Some of the troops may go to church. Miss Dance has a holiday. Now I’m acting-Commandant I can treat myself to a holiday this afternoon if I want one. What about my standing you a lunch in town?”
“Can’t be done,” Wharton said, putting the empty cup on the side-table, and wiping his moustache with vast sweeps of a handkerchief. “As a matter of fact, Ramble said the Sergeants’ Mess would be highly honoured if I’d have dinner there to-day. I take it your lunch is their dinner.”
Travers had to laugh. “That’s your version, George. I’ll bet a fiver you wheedled and wangled the whole damn’ thing.”
Wharton chuckled.
“One way of killing a cat is choking it with cream. Besides, I have to be friendly, don’t I? How can I get to know the place if I don’t meet people?”
“You needn’t apologise,” Travers told him. “All I suggest is you don’t let them catch you collecting fingerprints. I suppose, by the way you’ve added Timms’s to the collection.”
“No,” said Wharton blandly. “Timms is a very useful man. He’s told me quite a lot.”
“Such as?’
“Well, he and the Mess orderlies between them have provided me with Stirrop’s movements that night. Like to see?”
His notebook was actually under his pillow.
“I keep it there,” he said. “Might wake up in the night and think of something. Here it is. Bottom half of this page.”
07.55 Rang Mess Orderly. Ordered stiff rum, hot.
08.00 Drank rum. Swore because too hot.
08.05 Left mess. Timms in room. Found scarf for S. S. changed to thicker boots.
08.12 S. looked impatiently at watch. Cleared Timms out.
08.15 Mess O. thought saw S. going towards building.
“Convey anything to you?” Wharton asked.
“Not much,” Travers said. “It’s confirmatory rather than anything else.”
“You don’t think he went across to the building to have a private look at the prisoner he suspected of being Weinholst?”
Travers’s fingers went to his glasses.
“I have an idea. It wouldn’t be time for the count and the prisoners would be in the hall. After to-night, that’s what he wrote.”
Then he began blinking away as he polished his glasses.
“That makes a complication. Last night I thought of what he meant about killing two birds with one stone. This would make three birds. Wait a minute and I’ll explain.
“It’s like this, really. I ought to have told you that, besides having a down on me, Stirrop was also fed up with Winter.”
“Why?”
“Well, the more I look into things, I realise we weren’t Stirrop’s kind. I’ll wager that when he got rid of us two, he was going to wangle two of his pals into our jobs. He actually told me on the day he was killed, that Winter wouldn’t be much longer in the camp. I haven’t the slightest doubt that he told Winter the same thing about me. That’s why I now think that Winter and I were the two birds he was going to kill. Weinholst would have been a third bird.” He was shrugging his shoulders as he replaced his glasses. “Still, as I told you, he was incapable of thinking consecutively for more than two seconds at a time. When he wrote two birds, he might have been taking the third for granted.”
Travers took a peep into next door where Winter was shaving.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask you last night. Everything O.K. about Lading?”
“Must have been,” Winter said. “Byron didn’t say a thing. But I didn’t half have the wind up. You know that rug I chucked in behind for Lading to get under? That was the one Byron puts over his radiator in cold weather.”
Travers smiled. “I’ll bet Lading hopped out at one of the traffic lights.”
“You bet he did,” Winter said feelingly. “And then there was something else. When he went to his car to come home, Byron flashed his torch behind to put the rug back, then he said, ‘What clumsy devil’s been in here with snow all over his feet?’ I said I thought it was me when I got in the back by mistake.”
“All’s well that ends well,” Travers said, and then peeped in again. “Intelligence are ringing me at nine. I’ll let you know what it’s all about.”
“Good Lord! I nearly forgot something myself.” Winter said. “The telephone people rang yesterday and said you’d complained again about the ’phone. They’re coming to fix it.”
It was well after nine when that call came through. A Major Carterson was speaking.
“Superintendent Wharton gave me to understand that a prisoner named Beckner has left your camp. We rather expected him here. You have no more news?”
“None at all, sir.”
“I see. And one other thing. When you rang us the other day you said you were speaking on behalf of Beckner, and you gave certain information about two prisoners, Scribbnitz and Stein. Can you send those two up here?”
“Yes, sir. When?”
“Straightaway. We’ll take ’em over at Liverpool Street.”
“Very good, sir. Is that all?”
“That’s all, thank you. Good-bye.”
Travers cursed under his breath. Just the sort of thing that would h
appen on a Sunday. Two minutes later he was looking into Winter’s office and finding him there.
“Take a short holiday?”
He explained. Two prisoners would have to have an officer escort. Pewter was on duty, and one could hardly call on Dowling. Byron might like to go, but why not Winter himself? With luck the eleven-fifteen could be caught, and Winter could have a night in town and come back at his leisure in the morning. Winter thought it over, then said he’d love it.
“You’d better get across and warn the two prisoners then,” Travers said. “I’ll lend a hand with documents and accounts and so on.”
There was transport to fix up, an armed escort, the R.T.O. to ring, rations to arrange and railway vouchers to write. It was a quarter to eleven when the party left, and Travers had a breather. Word came through that the train had been caught, and then Liverpool Street had to he warned. Travers stoked his pipe, settled at last to his A.C.I.’s and then saw that in two minutes he was due for midday Commandant’s count. Then there was kitchen inspection and Staff Quarters, and another morning had gone. Of Wharton there had been never a sign.
Alter lunch Pewter dozed for a few minutes in an easy chair across in the far corner of the Mess. Then he woke, wondered if he had been snoring, and disappeared. Travers, with the room to himself, seized both Observer and Sunday Times, and prepared for a lazy afternoon. An hour went over the beginnings of Torquemada and then Wharton appeared.
The Case of the Murdered Major: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 16