She shook her head, then smiled with what was meant to be contrition.
“Sorry, darling. That was a hateful thing to say. All the same, I’m very much in earnest. I shall give you till eight o’clock: and then I shall write the letter. If you change your mind, then you shall take me to that little place in Chelsea. It’s still there. Bernice and I had tea there only the day before yesterday.”
I ignored all that. “Well, good-bye, Lotta. If ever you can talk sensibly at any time and would like me to help you in any other way—well, I’ll do what I can.”
“How sweet of you,” she said, and before I could stop her was on tiptoe and kissing the tip of my upturned chin. “That’s till to-night, darling. Ring me well before eight. I loathe having to hurry.”
I made my way downstairs with all the dignity I could muster, but, busy as I was, I didn’t hurry back to my flat, but sat for at least an hour in the Park. My thoughts whirled so fast and so chaotically that for the first half-hour they were more of a waking nightmare.
I knew she was lying; at least I would know it for five minutes only, and then for five seconds I would have my doubts, and, knowing me, those five seconds carried more weight than the five minutes. But whether she was lying or telling the sober truth, one tact remained. The effect of her letter on Bernice would be more than disastrous. Charlotte had wheedled her way into Bernice’s trust. Bernice mightn’t even need any proofs, and there I wished to God I’d taken that photograph. Perhaps the boy resembled me after all. How the hell could I tell whether he did or didn’t? But Bernice would see a resemblance. She had trusted me so implicitly that the shock would be overwhelming, and though she might still try to tell herself that the letter must be wrong, yet there was always the old adage that where smoke is there must be fire. And God knows what lies Charlotte would add to bolster up the main charge. She might even say that no sooner was Bernice’s back turned than I came to the Knightsbridge flat and made a whole series of new suggestions. And what worried me most was the thing that damned me most—that I had never owned to Bernice that Charlotte and I had been friendly; even that euphemism would have been enough.
All that afternoon my thoughts went round in the same maddening circles, and then at last I thought I saw a way out. If Charlotte could double-cross, so could I, and blackmail was very much of a boomerang. But it was not till early in the evening that I had my own scheme fully prepared. It was, in fact, about half-past six when I rang up Charlotte, and shortly before eight o’clock we were beginning our dinner in that out-of-the-way Chelsea restaurant.
CHAPTER III
COUNTERSTROKES
The food seemed the most insipid I had ever tasted, but I suppose it was good enough if I hadn’t lost all my appetite through worry and excitement. There was one good thing about the meal, however—Charlotte didn’t crow over her triumph. She assumed for the occasion one of her matey moods; all womanly, and full of anxious, sympathetic questions about myself and my work.
It’s a rather recherché little place, even if it is a bit off the map. There was quite a good quartet playing light music, and you could buy practically anything in the way of drink, and I remember who had kümmels with our coffee.
“Here’s to the old bad, sad days,” Lotta said before taking a sip.
“May they rest in peace,” I said, and then was putting a slip of paper in front of her. “Since we’ve got to talk business some time or other, why not now? Here’s my pen for you to sign on the dotted line.”
“I, Charlotte Marion Craigne, married woman, of Brazenoak in the county of Suffolk, do hereby declare that I have asked Ludovic Travers of St. Martin’s Chambers, London, to obtain for me certain information concerning my stepfather, Joseph Abram Passman, of Brazenoak as above. This information is needed solely in order to remove an injustice caused to my husband, Rupert Alan Craigne, by the said Joseph Passman, and I exonerate the said Ludovic Travers from any consequences that may arise from any other use I may make of it.”
She frowned as she read it and then looked rather blankly at me. Alfredo, the proprietor, was nearby and I called him over. He seemed delighted to witness the lady’s signature, and he absolutely scurried to his office to fetch blotting-paper.
“Well, that’s that,” I said off-handedly as I put the document in my pocket. I don’t suppose it had any official value at all, and I had thought of it only as I was leaving my flat. Perhaps if I had had time I’d have drafted it differently, but it read to me good enough to put some kind of brake on Charlotte who had always been terrified of anything official.
“But, my dear, what’s it all mean?” she asked me.
“Just this,” I told her. “It’s proof that I’m not being blackmailed, and if you use any evidence for blackmailing Joe, and land yourself in a mess, then you’re in it alone.”
“But, darling, I never wanted you to do anything but get me the evidence.” she expostulated.
“Splendid,” I said. “That makes us both happy about everything. And while I’m talking I’d better say this and get it over. I know you’re lying and bluffing, but since you can make a considerable amount of trouble for me if I call the bluff, I’ve decided that it’ll be easier to do what you ask. I’m not being blackmailed at all. I’m just as anxious as you, or any other good citizen, to see Passman convicted, if he’s guilty, and that’s why I’ll try to get evidence against him.”
“Darling, what a marvellous speech!”
“Glad you liked it,” I said, and I hope it was amusedly. “But I’m not going to get you this evidence myself. I’m going to compromise.”
She frowned.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I said. “I definitely can’t spare the time, and I doubt if I’ve the means or the ability. But I’ll find a good man for you. A private detective from a first-class firm. I hope he doesn’t cost you too much money.”
She leaned forward anxiously. “How much would he cost?”
“Depends on the speed with which he can get to work and get results. It might cost fifty pounds if he’s lucky, and it might cost a couple of hundred—or more.”
She smiled relievedly. “I can manage that. I thought you were going to say thousands.”
“If I find the right man, am I to give him his instructions, or will you? I won’t agree to any partnership. Either I handle the whole thing, or you do.”
“But of course you’ll do it. And it’s perfectly sweet of you.”
“Well, I told you I wanted to help you, didn’t I?” I told her with an air of gentle reprimand. “If you’d handled me the right way we might have made a start by now.”
“How forgiving you are, darling!”
“I don’t know about that,” I said with the necessary gruff deprecation. “But wait a minute. I knew there was something important I wanted to ask you. If you try blackmailing Joe, won’t you stand to lose? I mean, won’t he cut you out of his will?”
“Of course he will,” she said amusedly. “But when I commit blackmail I do it in style. The lump sum I shall make Joe fork out will be ample consolation, darling. It’ll keep me and Rupert till bye-bye time.”
“Does Rupert know about this scheme?”
She looked horrified. “But of course not! It’s going to be his big surprise.”
“You haven’t seen him since he came out?”
“I simply daren’t. I believe Joe’s even capable of having me watched. I don’t know when I shall see him. All I’ve managed to do is get a letter to him.” She smiled wanly. “You know. All the wifely things. Keep your chin up and watch for the silver lining.”
“Well, everything’s settled, then,” I said. “There’s only one thing to do. You said you had certain evidence against Joe. You must tell me what it is so that I can pass it on to our man. It doesn’t matter how intuitive it was.”
Then she became vague. That was a good sign, because when she was in her happiest mendacious vein she was always very voluble. Two things only seemed of use. Lotta said she had recently taxe
d Joe with being in the swindle, doing it playfully and expecting him to take it the same way. He had been very annoyed, but later that day had given her a cheque for a hundred and told her to buy herself some clothes. The other thing was that Joe was going to employ Harper. Lotta said she thought Harper was starting work for him almost at once, but what the work was she had no idea. But it certainly looked as if Joe had some reason for keeping Harper’s mouth shut.
“Well, I’ll pass all that on”, I said. “But there’s one other thing I had to mention. Sivley’s due out soon, and that was a damnably vicious attack he made on Rupert in the dock. Do you think he was serious when he threatened to do Rupert in?”
She shook her head quickly. “What a swine that Sivley was. I hated the beast even when he was Rupert’s chauffeur, but Rupert never would listen to me. I think that man’s capable of anything. My God, I could have killed him!”
Her eyes were blazing and her voice had risen.’
“There’re some people looking at us,” I said quietly. “And, by the way, there’s a man I rather promised to see at ten, and it’s near that now. Do you mind if we go?”
In the taxi on the way to Knightsbridge she suddenly snuggled against me and put her hand touchingly in mine.
“Ludo, I’ve been the most despicable beast.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I told her flippantly. “A bit reminiscent of some of the old days, perhaps.”
“And you, darling, you’ve been simply sweet. I’d do anything in the world for you.” She shook me gently. “Tell me what I can do.”
I had a sudden brainwave.
“Well,” I began, and then stammered artistically. “Well . . . I mean . . . I mean it doesn’t matter.”
She nudged me again. “Go on, darling. What was it you wanted to say?”
“Well . . . I suppose it’s rather abrupt of me, really. I mean, you’re a grass widow and I’m a grass widower, and I don’t really want to see that man very particularly to-night.”
She gurgled deliciously. “Darling, how sweet of you! I’d have loved it.” She sighed. “Some time soon, perhaps. To-night you’d be awfully disappointed.”
She snuggled even more closely, and I took the bad luck in good part. Then I told her I’d ring her up as soon as I’d fixed up with the detective. Where was it to be?
She said she would be in town for two more days and Joe was coming up on the last day. I jotted down the Knightsbridge number again, and by that time it was journey’s end. We said good-night in the taxi.
Now I had two reasons for making that amorous proposition. One was to induce her to believe that I was putty in her hands, and the other reason you will see. For as soon as the taxi was round the corner, I hopped out. It was a lovely June night and dusk was in the sky and I didn’t find it at all irksome standing in the square beneath the trees and keeping the flat under observation. It was eleven o’clock almost to the tick when a taxi drew up. A man got out, but the light was too bad for me to recognise him, though I did see him pay the driver and run up the steps as if in some haste. Or it might have been because he feared recognition.
I fairly sprinted round the near corner and just managed to hail the same taxi. When I paid the driver off at Trafalgar Square, I put an innocent question.
“That fare you dropped at Knightsbridge. I think it was a friend of mine. George Clark. A biggish chap with a heavy black moustache.”
“He was a biggish chap all right, sir,” the driver told me. “But he hadn’t no black moustache.” He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, sir, he had a yellow one, and a beard. I saw it under the muffler thing he had on.”
So Rupert was spending the night at the flat, as I had guessed. That made me think a bit, but it didn’t make me go hot and cold all over as when I wondered what I should have done if I had guessed wrongly, and Charlotte had accepted my timid proposal.
The next morning I went round to see Prince and Holloway, who’d done certain small jobs for me before. They were a first-class firm with a very good connection indeed, and I wasn’t any too happy about blurting out every side of the business about which I had come. Henry Prince saw me and the version I gave him was sufficiently near the truth, for Henry was discretion itself. He agreed that the business was a ticklish one and likely to be lengthy. I said that since a lot of the work would be for me, I’d guarantee and settle all accounts. I didn’t want him to be lavish, but I did want the job done well. Also the particular employee who handled the affair would have to be exceptionally competent and tactful.
“I’m not worrying about that,” he said. “I already have the man in mind. I don’t think you know him, but he’s a nephew of John Holloway. He’s exceptionally keen, and I think you’ll find him most able. He’s not available at the moment or I’d bring him in now.”
He consulted a pad, and then was asking if it’d be convenient for this man to see me at St. Martin’s Chambers early that evening. I suggested six o’clock. He’d be there, he said, and the name was Tarling, Frank Tarling.
“A charming fellow in some ways,” he said. “I hope you’ll find him just what you want.”
I said I was sure I should, and that was that. All the afternoon I was so busy that when Palmer announced a Mr. Tarling, I had to pull myself together before I remembered.
I don’t quite know the kind of man I expected to see, but I think it was someone on the earnest side; hook-nosed, perhaps, and lean. What I did see was a young fellow of under thirty, about five foot eight in height, and with a face that reminded me at once of Franchot Tone, with eyes that had a perpetual and ironic amusement.
He was at home from the moment he entered the door. He gave me a comfortable and comforting feeling. He didn’t talk a lot, but what he said was apt.
“I always hankered after your job when I was a boy,” I said. “I think it was after reading Kim.”
“It’s a great life,” he said, and nodded to himself. “I never put on a false moustache without getting a kick out of it.”
He gave me a queer ironic look and I wondered if he were pulling my leg. Then he had a look at the point of his pencil and we got down to business. I told him in great detail the Passman side of the affair.
“The best thing I can do is to look up the Press files,” he said. “Especially the Chelmsford ones. Looks as if I ought to get that trial pretty pat.”
“I agree,” I said. “Above all, study Passman’s evidence against Sivley and decide where exactly it fits in.”
“What’s he worth, this Passman?” he said, looking up from his notes.
“Don’t know. Anything from a quarter to a half million. You were going to say something?”
He shook his head. “Maybe I was, Mr. Travers. Guess I’d rather wait and hear anything else that’s coming.”
Well, I told him all about Charlotte, and when I say all, I mean all. He was to be trusted, and it would have been unfair to him to keep anything heck. He didn’t bat an eyelid, but went on with his notes. He did smile to himself when I described my own bit of detective work the previous night.
“Here’s the position, then,” I concluded. “I’m double-crossing her for all I’m worth. You’ll have two jobs to do, and of course you’ll have to use one or two men. The first is to get any possible evidence against Passman, and, frankly, all we need that for is to string Charlotte Craigne along. The main job is to find out what truth there was in that sob-story of the baby. Here’s the actual date when I last saw her, and I believe it was understood she was going somewhere on the French or Italian Riviera.”
“She had a maid?”
“A good question,” I said. “I remember a maid called—wait a minute—Butler. No, not Butler. Bullen. That’s it—Bullen. I never saw her though. And what I must keep perpetually reminding you of is, what a diabolical liar the woman is. Take my experience last night, for example. Swore blind she didn’t know when she’d see her husband again, and all the time she knew he was coming to the flat.”
He nodded, c
losed the book and hooked a leg over the side of the low chair.
“Mind if I put a question or two, Mr. Travers? This Passman, for instance. With all his dough, why should he take a hell of a risk, for a thousand or two?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” I said. “Joe’s fond of the brass, as he calls it, but I doubt if he’s all that fond.”
“I suppose he hasn’t any police record?”
“Our Joe?” I said, almost shocked. “Not he. And there’s nothing of the slippery financier about him. It seems to me,” I said, “that there are no easy answers to your question. Charlotte Craigne’s lying for some reason of her own and Passman never had the least thing to do with that swindle. On the other hand, there may have been more in the swindle than ever appeared, and he was in it because it was going ultimately to be worth the risk. That’s what I’d like you to find out.”
“So much for Passman,” he said. “And now one other thing, Mr. Travers. Everything that Rupert Craigne’s doing seems to me to be deliberate. All that window-smashing is only to give him the chance of getting into the papers, so that everybody can read that he’s claiming to be the victim of some big shot. I know that’s obvious, but the point l’d like to make is this. I think he’s trying to work on Passman’s nerves. His wife wants the evidence against Passman, and she’s sort of following up his good work. The whole thing’s a carefully co-ordinated scheme.”
“I admit it,” I said. “I’d say Charlotte’s been in touch with Rupert ever since he came out. The whole thing’s been carefully planned.”
“Then why?” he was asking with a humorous despair. “It doesn’t add up right. Why should those two work on his nerves if he isn’t guilty? Rupert Craigne can’t be making a mistake. He must know if Passman had a hand in the game, or not. Very well, then. Am I right in saying there aren’t two answers to your question after all? I mean, Passman must be guilty. Either that or the two Craignes are playing a mighty deep game with you.”
The Case of the Magic Mirror: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 4