The Case of the Magic Mirror: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  “Darling, you’ve been a perfect angel to-day,” she told me with a wan smile. “But you’re looking tired. Did they give you a dreadful meal?”

  “An excellent meal,” I said “And, by the way, I met that American friend of yours. What a charming fellow he is! We had a stroll together before tea.”

  “He is rather a dear,” she said. “I think I shall get him to use his influence to find me a job in Hollywood.”

  “Good Lord, why?”

  “My dear”—the gesture was one of grief and resignation—“I shall have to leave here. Not for a few days, of course. I must see poor old Joe decently buried. And when they recover Rupert’s body I shall have him buried here too.”

  I felt rather ashamed of myself because I couldn’t say the suitable thing, but somewhere inside me something was saying that everything didn’t ring true. Perhaps I was so used to expecting tricks and scheming that anything genuine had a false ring.

  “But why go to Hollywood?” I said. “Joe’s bound to have left you comfortably off.”

  “I just couldn’t go on living in England,” she said. “People never forget.”

  That didn’t ring true either. If there was one thing I guessed she had been anticipating, it was to cut a dash with Joe’s money. However, I heaved a suitable sigh, then cut in with my question.

  “Look here, Lotta, I’ve got to have a few straight words with you now. What I promised to help you in isn’t wanted now. Isn’t that so?”

  “No,” she said slowly, and looked away. “I suppose it isn’t—really.”

  “Then what about calling off that private detective?”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I’ve been thinking such a lot, lying here all alone. And, don’t you see. Even if Rupert is gone, it’s up to me to clear his name. If we can prove that he was a tool of Joe, and Joe let him down, then it’s my duty.”

  “Rather ghoulish, isn’t it? I mean, with Joe dead?”

  “Don’t be pious,” she told me, and forgot her pose in a flash of annoyance. “What’s Joe’s reputation compared with Rupert’s?”

  “It’s your money,” I said. “I’ll tell him to carry on. He’s on a clue of sorts already, by the way.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” I said, “but that’s as much as I know. Also,” I went hastily on, “I remembered what you said about finding Sivley, so I put him on to that too. Got in touch with him about an hour ago.”

  “Did you, darling? That was sweet of you.”

  There was no particular enthusiasm. Indeed, she seemed the least bit taken aback, and I was wondering why.

  “One thing you must do,” she said. “You must come down here till everything’s over. You can stay at the Oak”.

  “Heavens, Lotta, how can I do that? What about my work?”

  “But, darling, you can work just as well at the Oak?”

  “Can’t be done,” I said with finality.

  “But, darling, I want you to.” There was more than a suspicion of a threat in her voice. “I shall be very, very angry if you don’t.”

  “More blackmail?”

  She smiled. “Don’t use that word, darling. It’s horrid. But I warned you I should be ruthless.”

  “So may I one of these days.”

  “What do you mean?” She was actually looking frightened.

  “Oh, nothing. But I can be driven so far and no farther.”

  “Don’t let’s argue,” she said. “And you must really be going now? Do stay and have supper. I told Matthews we might have a quick meal.”

  “Sorry, but I must get back to town,” I said. “See you soon, I hope.”

  “To-morrow, darling,” she told me from the chesterfield. “Bring all your books and everything. You’re going to be such a comfort to me.”

  Out in the hall I damned her under my breath, and myself too for the moral coward I’d been. There had I been, boasting to Frank of having a final understanding, and all I’d done was to let her twist me round her fingers.

  “Mr. Travers, sir.” Matthews was coming along the corridor.

  “Hallo, Matthews.” I said. “This has been the devil of a day for you.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and shook his head. A finger went tremblingly to his lips for silence. “May I . . . you wouldn’t think it a liberty, sir . . . what I want to say, sir, is could you spare me a private moment some time?”

  “Why certainly, Matthews,” I said. “When shall it be?”

  “Was there something you wanted?” That was Charlotte. She had suddenly appeared at Matthews’s elbow and, though she was smiling inquiringly, I knew she must have heard what we had said.

  “Oh, no,” I said, as Matthew retired with a little bow or two. “I was only sympathizing with Matthews on the terrible day he’s had.”

  A car drew up at the front door. It was Venter’s, and when I looked round to say a final good night to Charlotte, she had gone. Venter waited for me outside.

  “Still at it?” I said.

  “That’s right, sir, and I look like being at it for some time.”

  “Anything on the wireless to-night?”

  “The whole issue,” he said. “All about both of them. Evening papers full of it. The village is like an ant-heap.”

  “One thing I wondered,” I said. “I suppose I shall see it in the papers, but what sort of clothes was Sivley wearing? The sort of things a man would wear who was riding a motor-bike?”

  “Just ordinary clothes,” he said. “Sports coat and grey flannels. Between you and me, the same as he left home with. A pair of goggles on, that’s all. And do you mind if ask you why you wanted to know?”

  “I just wondered,” I said. “I thought the motor-bike would help to trace his movements, and so might any special clothes.”

  He looked disappointed. I changed the conversation, for I knew I was a fool to have put the question at all. Then his man popped out of the study and said he was wanted on the telephone, and I was glad enough to get away.

  When I’d thought some more about what sort of a fool I’d been not to have stood up to Charlotte, I began wondering what it was that Matthews wanted to tell me, and why he had been so mysterious about it. What I’d do, I thought, was to ring Palmer up and say I’d be home very late. Then I’d go back to the Manor—back door—when Charlotte was in bed, and have that private talk with Matthews.

  But all that was to be knocked cock-eyed. As I came to the village cross-roads and in sight of the Oak, I stepped absent-mindedly into the main road, and at once there was a veritable blast of a hooter behind me. I stepped back remarkably shamefaced, and then my eyes met those of the driver of the car. And he was George Wharton.

  CHAPTER VII

  BIRTH OF A THEORY

  “God Almighty!” Wharton’s eyes were bulging.

  The car had slithered to a halt to avoid my untimely death, and I promptly opened the near front door.

  “Surprise if you like, George, but no blasphemy,” I said. “And if it comes to that, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “Me? I’ve got business,” he told me resentfully.

  “If you’re going to the Manor,” I said, “you’re going the wrong way.”

  He shot me a look, then his eyes were back on the road again. George was more than a careful driver. I believe he once exceeded forty, and both of his hands always clutch the wheel as if he’s perpetually jockeying for position.

  “I suppose you’re not staying here by any chance?” he asked with what was meant to be sarcasm as he drew the car up in the Oak yard. “Got your car, I see, too.”

  When his car was run into the garage and he’d got out his bag, we strolled together to the pub.

  “To quit the persiflage, George,” I said. “I think it might be useful to both of us if we had a quiet talk.”

  “I’ve booked a room,” he said, “so we might go up there. A spot of grub wouldn’t do me any harm either.”

  There was no sign of Frank, or the beetle-browed Smi
th. George signed the book as Mr. Wharton, Golders Green.

  “Incognito?” I asked as we followed the chambermaid up the stairs.

  “Any objections?”

  I smiled and said no more. When the girl had gone George had a wash at the bathroom basin, hissing and puffing as if he were rubbing down a horse.

  “That’s better,” he said as he put his coat on again. “And now what were you going to tell me?”

  I had no time to waste so I told him that Mrs. Craigne was a friend of my wife and my sister. She had been worried about the antics of her husband and had asked me to do something if I could. After that came the events of the day.

  “Right in the thick of it, eh?” George said. “And what sort of a woman is she, this Mrs. Craigne?”

  I didn’t give anything away, but naturally I did have to put in a considerable amount of truth in order to leaven the lump. After I’d said, for instance, that she was a very attractive woman and of very good family—though George will never admit it he’s always a bit of a snob—I divulged that she’d not been behind in helping Craigne get rid of his money, that she hadn’t too many moral scruples, and that she’d been playing a double game with Joe Passman.

  “You’re going to see her?” I asked him.

  “Well, I might,” he said, and pursed his lips.

  “Cough it up, George,” I said. “I’ve been perfectly frank with you. What are you down here for?”

  Then the maid was bringing in his supper tray. I was sorry about that interruption for it might give him time to work out some specious tale. But for once be told me the truth, though it must have hurt.

  “Just that old business,” he told me as he tucked the napkin into his collar. “I’ve got authority to go right through Passman’s papers.”

  “You think he might have been mixed up in that swindle after all?”

  “You never know,” he said. “A remarkably funny thing came to light about a month ago. You remember that chap Rogerley?”

  “The trainer?” I said, and almost blushed.

  “His stable’s near Salisbury,” George went on. “We got an anonymous letter, post-marked Winchester, saying we might do worse than inquire into the past history of a Mrs. Drawe. There was a bit more to it than that or we shouldn’t have sent a man down. When he got there, what do you think he found? She’d just been taken to hospital and she died under an operation two days later.”

  “And was there anything in it?”

  “Only this. She was Rogerley’s sister. Her husband died a year before, and the two of them had been largely dependent on Rogerley. The husband was one of those feckless individuals, always suffering from bad luck. I pricked my ears up when I heard that and down to Hampshire I went. What do you think we unearthed? Just before that swindling gang was nabbed, this Mrs. Drawe and her husband were about to take over a village post office near Salisbury!”

  My eyebrows lifted.

  “And what’s more,” George went on between bites, “the arrangements were suddenly terminated as soon as the gang was nabbed. Now do you see things?”

  “An extension of the original scheme?”

  “That’s it. Dammit, they’d made their first packet and it went to their heads, so they thought they’d start opening branches! But this is the point. The Drawes hadn’t a bean but what Rogerley allowed them, and he’s always living from hand to mouth. Now then; we know it wasn’t the first winnings that were being invested in the branch concerned because the first winnings hadn’t come in when the Drawes began negotiating for the purchase of the shop. Where was the money coming from then? Could it have been Passman?”

  “I still can’t believe it,” I said. “As I told you before, Joe never missed the chance of making a penny, but he wasn’t an utter fool.”

  “Well, I’m having a look at his papers. Checking up on his spendings.”

  “Why not?” I said. “But what’s being done about Rogerley?”

  “Nothing,” George said. “There’s no case against him. What we think is that he was going to work a swindle over his own horses only. But he got out in time and the P.P.”—the Public Prosecutor, he meant—“doesn’t even see a case for charging him with intent.”

  He gulped down a last cup of tea, wiped his vast moustache with ample sweeps of his huge handkerchief, and got to his feet.

  “Well, I must get along and see Venter. Hell of a day in front of me to-morrow. The managing director of Passman, Ltd., coming down and another director, and the solicitor. Seeing the Chief Constable later—”

  “I’m in a hurry, too,” I told him. “So just one last tip, George. If you’re examining Passman’s papers, I’ll bet you find some of Mrs. Craignes finger-prints on them. That woman wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of curiosity.”

  We went downstairs together and George said it was a pity in a way that he and I wouldn’t be working on a case, for Brazenoak struck him as a nice little spot. Sivley, he said, would be nabbed before Sunday was out.

  “Hallo, Frank?” I said, for Frank was at the foot of the stairs and suddenly interested in the face of the grandfather clock.

  “Looking at this clock,” he said. “What’s it worth, Mr. Travers?”

  Then he caught sight of Wharton. I did the introductions and made the explanations.

  “Glad to meet you, sir,” Wharton said. “And what do you think of the ancestral home?”

  “It’s a great spot,” Edward Franks, Jr., told him. “If I had the money I’d like to transplant it.”

  “Ah, we’ve still got something to show you people from the other side,” chuckled Wharton. Then he was making his excuses and saying he might see him later. I received only a nod. Frank gave me a nod too, but towards the top landing.

  From the window of his room we watched George set out for the Manor.

  “So that’s the great Superintendent Wharton,” Frank said.

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Well, he looks a bit past it.”

  “Don’t you underestimate George Wharton,” I told him. “He’s crafty as a weasel and if you try any monkey tricks you’ll wish you were playing tag with a man eater. Smith’s on the trail, is he?”

  “He rang me up half an hour ago,” he said. “He’s found the garage where Sivley bought the motor-bike, and he’s got the number. A second-hand machine that cost him twelve quid. When Sivley left Ipswich, which was at once apparently, he took the Felixstowe road. That’s all my man knows at present.”

  “Next time you get in touch with him, tell him Sivley was wearing the same clothes when he killed Passman as he was when he left here that night. By the way, what did he do with his attaché-case when he bought the bike?”

  “There was a carrier behind,” Frank said. “He strapped it on.”

  “Smith doesn’t forget much,” I had to say.

  “He’s a good man,” Frank said with a nod of the head. “If he doesn’t beat the police to finding Sivley, then I’m a crooner.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, and told him what Wharton had divulged about Rogerley.

  “That’s damn funny,” he said, and frowned. “What was Rogerley doing down here then? He wanted to see Sivley and he probably saw Harper. Surely he wasn’t thinking of having another crack at beating the bookies?”

  “Lord knows,” I said. “But let me put this up to you. Rogerley didn’t see Sivley, as far as we can judge. What he did do was to run like a jack rabbit as soon as he heard what Sivley had done to Passman, Why?”

  “Maybe he thought Sivley had a spare knife for him.”

  “Sivley made no allusions to Rogerley in the dock,” I pointed out. “But what about this? Rogerley bolted for home because he knew Sivley would be waiting for him there.”

  “Gosh, yes,” he said. “You’ve got something there, Mr. Travers. What do you say to my going down to Rogerley’s place and keeping an eye open?”

  “Even if you don’t go, it’ll be something good in theories to put up to the merry widow
,” I told him. “Let her think her man’s gone there. She’ll think she’s getting value for money. You bet your life Wharton will know Rogerley’s been here. You might even tell him yourself. Say it’s village gossip and how everyone was talking about the old swindling case. He’ll put two and two together just as well as we can. The police’ll be hot on Rogerley’s trail before tomorrow’s out.”

  Now Frank had no experience of me as a theorist, and I’m afraid he was inclined to regard me as an oracle. George Wharton could sometimes be infuriated at my ability to find an immediate theory to satisfy any circumstances, but he would profit unblushingly from my average of one good thought in four. It was George, by the way, who once remarked bitterly that given a moment to polish my glasses, I could spontaneously produce a theory to account for the eccentricities of the larynx of Balaam’s ass and the gullet of Jonah’s whale.

  “The merry widow,” Frank said with a grin. “Was she merry?”

  “In a subdued way, yes,” I said. “She was posing to me as the brave little woman, but I don’t think she was altogether dissatisfied. You think that’s a queer thing to say?”

  “Damned if I know,” he said. “Would you mind if I put something forward, Mr. Travers?”

  “Why the apologies?”

  “Well,” he said diffidently, “I don’t like putting forward theories without something substantial to go on.”

  I nodded with never a blush.

  “That woman’s a rattlesnake,” he said. “It isn’t what you told me about her that makes me say that, it’s something I feel whenever I’m up yonder at the Manor. If she isn’t playing some dirty game—and I don’t mean blackmailing you—then my name’s Adolf. That’s all I’ve got to go on.”

  “Well, what’s the theory?” I said, to help him out, for he still seemed a bit chary of going on.

  He lighted himself a cigarette. “This,” he said, and nodded. “Your alluding to her as the merry widow just clinched what I’ve been thinking a goodish part of this evening. Mind if I do a bit of catechising, Mr. Travers?”