The Case of the Murdered Major: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  Travers said he had just given it to Ramble.

  Wharton hurried off in the direction of the front entrance.

  It was five o’clock that afternoon when the motor-coach came back. Travers still had in his nostrils the heavy scent of lilies, and in his ears the sound of his own uttered consolations which he hoped had not seemed forced and pretentious. But he had enjoyed that half-day out of camp, and a sight of the countryside, even if it was deep in snow. And he had enjoyed quite a long chat with Ramble.

  They had talked mostly about the last war, and then Travers had contrived to bring in the matter of Wharton and the Sunday lunch, but without finding the slightest clue as to what the General’s scheme had been. The only thing that Travers did learn was this.

  Ramble went across to the building to lock the veranda door with the key Travers gave him and Wharton arrived just as he was doing it. Captain Travers, he said, had told him to take the job over and the key. But Ramble did have a look at the footprints that Travers had mentioned.

  “Those are all mine,” Wharton said, and Travers could imagine his gesture of guileful dismissal. “I had a look here when we were going round yesterday.”

  “You must have been up twice, then, sir.” Ramble pointed out. “Some of those footprints have had snow on them.”

  Wharton winked shamelessly.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of putting snow on afterwards to make it look as if they were there before?”

  Then as Travers duly noted, having got Ramble into an impossible tangle, he locked the door, pocketed the key and changed the subject of conversation. And Travers knew too that there would be no point in questioning Wharton or trying to drive him into some argumentative corner from which he could not escape. Wharton would either wriggle out, or barefacedly deny. And, after all, the case was his. For the first time in his Yard career, Travers was working with Wharton not as a colleague and collaborator, and his methods would have to be his own.

  As he went by on his way to his room, Travers peeped in the Mess. There Wharton sat, cup of tea in hand, while the three guard officers listened goggle-eyed to some yarn he was spinning. Undoubtedly Wharton was going down very well, and Travers was glad to find him so popular, if somewhat critical of his methods. For he very definitely was popular. Ramble spoke of him with awe and affection, and wherever he went in the camp he met with smiles. And he was known everywhere. The N.A.A.F.I. hut had seen him throw a skilful dart, and he had had more than one extra cup of tea in the men’s cookhouse. Miss Dance, after a few minutes in his office, would come back to the comparative austerity of Travers’s room all giggles and smiles. Timms had reported, according to Sniffy, that he wouldn’t mind if Wharton stayed on for the duration.

  “Come and have some tea,” Wharton said, as if the place were his own.

  “In a minute or two,” Travers told him. “I’m just going along for a polish. Captain Winter back?”

  “Just after you left,” Wharton said.

  “And nothing’s been happening? No brass hats?”

  “Not a soul,” Byron said. “You know we’ve been very lucky recently, sir, about inspections. The main gate sentries always love ’em though.”

  He explained for Wharton’s benefit. Nobody was allowed to enter camp without a pass. Along would come some visiting or inspecting brass hat, to be promptly held up by the sentry. There would be indignation or worse, the sentry would hold his ground—as ordered—then the sergeant of the guard would be called and the position explained. Then the brass hat would be hugely delighted that a sentry could carry out orders even at the risk of reprimand, and the sentry would be congratulated and almost promised a medal, and everybody—brass hat included—would be beaming.

  Travers left in the middle of that explanation and went straight to the office. Miss Dance had gone, but Winter was working away at accounts.

  “I thought I’d better work here as you were away,” he said.

  “The very best place,” Travers said. “Have a good time in town?”

  “Pretty good,” Winter said, and smiled. “No trouble with those two birds either.”

  “Splendid. Nothing’s been happening this afternoon, so they tell me.”

  “Not a thing. I’ve just been sitting near the ’phone doing odd jobs all the afternoon. The man called about the ’phone, by the way.”

  “What was wrong?”

  Winter smiled. “Between ourselves I don’t think he found a lot. You know how these fellows are. They talk a lot of technical stuff and try to impress you. He tried to make out it was something inside the old box of tricks.”

  The box of tricks was the cabinet of contraptions with a front all knobs and levers. Press this and depress that, and you might put yourself through to the extension you wanted, or be warned to take an incoming call. On the other hand, you might not.

  “He tackled that did he?” asked Travers amusedly.

  “Had its inside all spread over the table,” Winter said, stretching his legs. “Now I’ll fix up a telephone orderly for you, and then get a spot of tea.”

  He gave Travers a quiet, appraising look.

  “Why don’t you go down town to-night and ease off a bit? The whole gang’s going, Wharton included. I’d much rather you went instead of me.”

  “Sorry, can’t be done,” Travers said. “But you’re a good feller all the same. Now cut along and get some tea. I’ll see to that telephone orderly.”

  Once more he began wondering just what Wharton’s idea was. Off down town with the two guard officers and Winter—and why? What confidences was he trying to wheedle out of them? Once on the trail, Wharton knew no morals and had no scruples, and, as Travers had often reluctantly admitted, he was always right. If Wharton had dealt with Hitler, there would have been no appeasement: his way would have been to flatter the Führer, outlie Goebbels, and even, if necessary, wear more medals than Göring. And yet somehow Travers didn’t like the idea of Wharton’s hob-nobbing with all and sundry in the camp. That night probably somebody would drop an unguarded word, not necessarily about himself but incriminating someone else, and to obtain that word, Wharton was going out with the young bloods to kick up his ancient heels.

  Something in those thoughts made Travers remember Mafferty and he rang through. The box of tricks was working well, for Mafferty answered at once.

  “Sorry to have left you in the lurch like this,” Travers said, “but I’ll be along after tea. Anything for me to do?”

  “About a couple of hundred papers to sign,” Mafferty said, and with his newly acquired good- humour, “And don’t forget to check your accounts, sir, and the copy of Company Account.”

  “You go and get yourself some tea,” Travers told him. “Then bring your stuff down here. Twice as quick as running up and down those cursed stairs.”

  It was dark by the time Travers had finished tea, and as he came out of the Mess, Wharton called to him. Travers was the least bit on his dignity, but Wharton appeared to notice nothing. He was even inclined to be communicative, which made Travers still more suspicious.

  “I thought you’d like to know the doctor’s O.K.,” he said. “He’s making money out of his practice and he got this job in a normal way. From what I can gather, when the W.O. got out the scheme for a camp here, they consulted the local authorities and mentioned a doctor. The authorities consulted the local doctors and Dulling was willing to take the job. One or two officers turned the offer down.”

  “What about his wife and the Italian consulate?” Travers asked.

  “Now you’re getting to something a bit outside my line,” Wharton said. “The Special Branch are on that. What I do know is that both the Martellis are in the thick of everything: whist drives, bridge drives, dances—anything to raise money for war charities.”

  He gave Travers a roguish nudge in the ribs. “That means a lot of organisation. All sorts of people calling. Regular hive of industry. Very nice to have all sorts of officers to entertain and hear all the latest. Tester�
�s there quite a lot, they tell me.”

  “So I believe,” said Travers. “And what about you, George? Any nearer getting your man?”

  “Man?” said Wharton mysteriously. “Why man?”

  “Now you’re being deliberately obscure,” Travers told him. “The only possible woman is Bertha Dance, and I can’t see her murdering Stirrop on a snowy night.”

  “Come, come, come,” said Wharton placatingly. “You don’t get the idea. Why should it be one man only? That’s what I was getting at.”

  He edged nearer and his voice lowered.

  “Remember telling me what this place was like? Everybody on edge and loathing the Commandant, and going through the hell of a time? And thinking how different things would be once he was out of the way? You thought the same or you would not have contrived that alibi of yours which someone sent to the Brigadier. Very well, then. Suppose two fellows A and B. A’s the master mind and gets B in to help. B doesn’t know just what he’s in for, and then when Stirrop gets murdered, he has to keep his mouth shut to save his own skin. Well, isn’t there something in that?”

  “There certainly is,” said Travers.

  “And one other little thing. You made a list of suspects and you ought to know. But didn’t you leave one out? What about that bull-necked swine of a Friedemann?”

  Travers’s fingers went to his glasses, and then there was a quick tap at the door and Winter came in, greatcoat collar up to his ears.

  “Where’re we going?” Wharton asked genially, eyes on the fur gloves. “With Scott to the Antarctic?”

  “You get your coat on and come along,” Winter told him. “We’re all lined up and waiting.”

  He whispered in Travers’s ear.

  “Wish I could get out of it. We’re going to the Royal. That nancy-boy Tester’s going to be there.”

  For two hours Travers worked steadily on with Mafferty, till his fingers were cramped and he was sick of the sight of his own signature. Then Mafferty gave an approving nod and said that would be all. There were one or two things he could finish in the morning and still have plenty of time to catch the first post.

  Travers stretched his long legs, gave his glasses a polish and wondered what there would be for dinner, and he had more than a suspicion that he was in for rissoles. And Wharton now probably filled to the eyebrows with a five-courser at the Royal. An intriguing idea, that, about two people being concerned in Stirrop’s murder, and B, who had opened his mouth too far perhaps, now afraid to give away the murderer A. Too complicated, though, to work out with a tired brain.

  And then Travers moistened his lips as he thought of something else. When Wharton gave away information it was for one or two reasons: to obtain something more important in exchange, or to conceal real evidence behind the smoke-screen of his own verbosity. Then why had he volunteered that theory about two men having been concerned, and at the very moment when he was going out with Byron and Dowling? Dowling could never have murdered Stirrop—or could he? That pretended visit to Main Guard just before the count that night, could it have been the creating of some crude alibi to explain away the time when he was doing Stirrop in? Or had Byron been mainly concerned, and had Dowling, as Orderly Officer, been used to lure Stirrop into the very position and circumstances in which Byron wanted him?

  Travers worried his wits over that, and knew his brain too tired. Besides, as he could assure himself, neither Byron nor Dowling was the sort to commit murder. And then again he did not know. A furtive, sullen, treacherous sort of place the camp had been in Stirrop’s time, and furtiveness breeds furtiveness. And never had a man sounded more desperate than Byron had sounded when he had admitted that Stirrop had at last driven him beyond his tether.

  As for Friedemann, Travers though Wharton’s inclusion of him in the list of suspects as very far-fetched. It was as nebulous as that question of the extra prisoner, even though one could believe anything of a fawning, shifty-looking swine like Friedemann to be civil to whom was to make one’s gorge rise. And so Travers gave a kind of lung-clearing sigh, reached for his British warm, and thought once more about dinner.

  Outside it was inkily dark, with low clouds that threatened still more snow. Then as he shone his torch on the slippery path, he suddenly halted as he heard voices. Two of those sentries talking again, and he was making up his mind to twist Byron’s tail.

  Then he changed his mind, he would stroll quietly across and catch the two red-handed, and would blast hell out of them. Over and over again that order had been read on parade, and it was time for drastic action. But as he neared the dimly lighted wire, he saw the far sentry approaching, and knew his opportunity had gone.

  But he stood where he was. The sentry came to the end of his beat, halted, gave a smart about-turn, and moved off again. Travers smiled grimly. Was it genuine smartness or was he trying to keep his feet warm? Probably a bit of both, and with that grudging tribute he moved off too. Then he halted again in his tracks, breath held.

  Someone was almost through the wire gates and making for the main building. A faint light from overhead caught him for a second, and no more, and yet Travers was certain that the somebody was Wharton! Yes, Wharton it was—and as suddenly gone. Wharton, who should have been in town. Who had gone to town, and, if it came to that, who must still be in town!

  Travers moved on towards the Mess, and he found himself walking softly as if he himself were also some furtive kind of conspirator. The time by the Mess clock was a quarter to nine.

  CHAPTER XV

  APPROACH OF A CLIMAX

  Next morning Travers went straight to the Mess without dropping in on Wharton. Dowling was finishing breakfast.

  “You changed duties with Pewter yesterday, did you?” Travers asked.

  “Yes, sir, I did,” Dowling said. “He wasn’t keen on going down town last night.”

  “Have a good time?”

  “Oh, fine. Early dinner at the Royal, and roped Tester in. Then we went on to the second house at the Palladion. Topping show. One comic who was genuinely funny, and a really great troupe of acrobats. Superintendent Wharton had hard luck. He was called out soon after it started. Someone at H.Q. wanted him, but he got back in time for the comic.”

  “Well, enjoy yourselves while the going’s good,” counselled Travers. “The count all right?”

  “Yes, sir. Seventy, the same as last night.”

  Travers went out to the office almost at once and ran into Winter, who admitted he’d also had a good time.

  “Heard anything about Lading?" he asked.

  “Devil a word,” Travers said. “Still, Intelligence won’t consider it’s their duty to let us know at once.”

  “Wonder what he’s up to?” Winter said frowningly. “He didn’t ask me for a railway warrant, so presumably he’s still in the town.”

  “If he was in civilian clothes, he wouldn’t dare try and use a warrant,” Travers thought. “He’s a queer bird, though. Lord knows what he’s up to.”

  The mail was opened and sorted. Miss Dance arrived, and Travers noted that she was now wearing openly and regularly that wrist-watch which he had thought a present from Stirrop. A quarter of an hour later, who should look through the communicating door but Wharton.

  “Can you come in a minute?”

  “I’ve just been talking over something with Captain Winter here,” he explained. “I’ve got the idea that another tunnel’s being constructed. Would it be out of the question to examine all the doors?”

  “I don’t think so,” Travers said, "if you consider it necessary. I can ring D.C.R.E. to send three or four men, and we can shift the prisoners to the first floor and keep them there all day. What do you say, Winter?”

  “It ought to be easy enough,” Winter said. “When’s the move to take place?”

  “Now,” Wharton said. “I’d like it all over by dinner-time.”

  “Then if you’ll see Ramble and take charge at the building, I’ll do the rest,” Travers said. “If Friedemann a
sks any questions, jump on him with both feet.”

  Winter nodded meaningly.

  “I will, and from an enormous altitude as they say in the classics.”

  Wharton came through to Travers’s room and waited there while the D.C.R.E. was being rung up. Everything was fine, Travers reported. Four men with the necessary tools would be along at ten hours.

  “Can you come along to my room a minute?” Wharton asked mysteriously. “There’s something urgent I want to talk over.”

  On the way out he paused for an avuncular word with Miss Dance, and left her with the usual titters.

  “Nice girl, that,” he remarked to Travers. “Knows her job too. Come along in for a minute. I won’t keep you longer.”

  He adjusted the wick of the oil-stove and made a few comments, then at last he was ready.

  “I think I’m on to something really important.”

  “Really?” said Travers.

  “Yes. At seven o’clock tonight I’m having a highly confidential meeting with someone in town. Tell me, how does one get to a place called Natal Square?”

  “You go right past it on the way down in the tram,” Travers said. “Get off at the second traffic lights and turn sharp left. It’s about a hundred yards on.”

  “There’s a pub there called the Crown and Anchor,” Wharton said, “and my rendezvous is in the private bar. I thought I’d let you know in case I’m at all late.”

  He was already getting to his feel.

  “I’ll let them know in the Mess,” Travers said, “and I’ll wait up if you’re not too late. Have a good time last night, by the way?”

  “First-class,” Wharton said. “One of the real old music-hall shows. You were in bed when we got home.”

  “I’m an early bird these days,” smiled Travers. “Ever hear anything about those finger-prints?”

  “Nothing any good,” Wharton said, locking the door carefully behind them. “And now I think I’ll get across to the building for a front seat in the stalls.”