Wharton peered at me over his spectacles, but said nothing.
“As soon as I heard of it I got busy,” I said. “I’ve discovered she’s taking the devil of a lot of luggage. In fact all the signs show she’s not intending to come back. I dare say if you asked at her bank you’d learn she’s in possession of a pretty big sum of money. And she’s sold her car. But the point’s this. I’ve a hunch that Sivley will be on that train. She’s going to shepherd him through the cordon in some way. If he isn’t on the train, then he’ll be on the boat. So I’m going to be on that train.”
“But she’ll spot you.”
“Of course she will,” I said. “But it’ll be too late. You and I will see to that.”
“So you’re going to allow me to go, are you?”
“Don’t be huffy, George,” I said. “You’re the very one who has to go. What I suggest is that you get rigged up as a Belgian going back home.”
That appealed to him. I haven’t mentioned the fact in this book, but George is one of the few Englishmen I know who can be said to speak French like a native. His mother was French, and he’s always been very much of a Francophile.
“A man I know in Shaftesbury Avenue might rig me up,” he said.
Then we got down to details. I told him I’d induced Franks to let me know when she left her flat for Liverpool Street Station, and I think George imagined Franks would be seeing her off. George said he’d fix everything with the railway people, and he’d have four plain clothes men on the train, two ahead of her compartment and two behind.
“For the love of heaven see they don’t look too much like flatties,” I said. “The least suspicion and our goose is cooked for good.”
George said he’d pick them himself, and then we worked out a system of communication. All the time I could feel him holding himself in, and bursting to know how I’d got that hunch about Sivley. Finally we agreed to meet at Liverpool Street at nine the next morning. If anything happened meanwhile, I should be at the flat from nine o’clock onwards. Palmer wasn’t due back from his short holiday till the morning, so I’d feed at an hotel.
I had my meal and when I got back to the flat I poured myself a stiff drink to brace me for the last thing that was left to do. It was a minute or two before I felt equal to dialling Charlotte Craigne’s number. She was in, and she recognised my voice from only the hallo.
“It’s you, isn’t it, Ludo?”
“Ludo, it is,” I said.
“Darling, how nice to hear you again! But I thought you were in Brazenoak.”
“I’ve had my small holiday,” I said. “Now I’ve got a job of work to do. I’d have asked you to lunch somewhere to-morrow, but I’ve got to meet some people.”
“I’m frightfully busy, too,” she said sorrowfully. “Some other time perhaps. But isn’t Bernice due back soon?”
“In a few days,” I said. “And that reminds me. Don’t think I’m whining, but I tried to be decent over—well, you know what. So tell me the honest-to-God truth. Was that a bluff of yours about a certain . . . a certain boy?”
“Bluff’s a horrid word,” she said. “But as if I’d deceive you about a thing like that. Besides, I may want you to help me again sometime.”
“Over what?”
“Darling, must you always be precise? I was talking figuratively.”
“Well, I shall be seeing you sometime,” I said. “But for having to meet these people to-morrow I’d have looked you up.”
I hung up then. I’ve often wondered just what I’d have done if she’d been only partly decent or repentant and owned up to that damnable blackmail scheme that had worried me more than I could ever tell. As it was, that short telephone conversation was a kind of tonic. Whatever the next day might bring, I knew I could go through with it.
That night I slept very badly. I had, in fact, the kind of night one gets when having to rise at some unearthly hour, and I doubt if I had more than thirty minutes’ continuous sleep. At six o’clock I was up and I took considerable pains over my dressing. Then I had a service breakfast and I lingered that out too, and still there was an hour to go before I was due at Liverpool Street. Then the telephone bell went.
“Harold speaking,” the voice said. “A taxi just took some advance luggage. Thought I’d better let you know. Everything set your end?”
“Everything set,” I said.
“The best of luck, then,” he said. “Don’t forget to ring.”
Another quarter of an hour and it was time to move off. When I reached Liverpool Street I was ten minutes early, but even then Wharton was there before me.
CHAPTER XVI
FINALE
I can honestly say that I should never have recognised Wharton if I had not known; indeed the whole of that morning there seemed an unreality in thinking of him as Wharton. Yet his make-up was simple—cheeks padded, moustache waxed back and with the short imperial making a Louis Napoleon effect, hair greyed and shoulders padded almost to a hump so that there was an impression of age. Something had also been done to the corners of his eyes to give a slit effect, and as he was swathed in black clothes in spite of the weather, and wore a flopping black hat, he was the very spit of a prosperous provincial. The padding of the cheeks had given his voice just sufficient change and made it slightly nasal and two or three tones higher.
We waited by the telephone till Frank’s message came through. I took the call and there had to be some dissimulation.
“Just left,” I said. “Thank you, Frank. We’re very grateful to you.”
Then his end of the conversation was purely imaginary.
“I rather had an idea you were seeing her off. . . . You don’t say! . . . Yes, I’m awfully sorry about that . . . To-night, if you could . . . . I’ll get in touch with you later. . . . I see, at the hotel. . . . Yes, I’m sure he would. . . . Well, thanks a lot. See you later. . . . Good-bye.”
“He couldn’t see her off,” I told Wharton, “because he’s just had a cable that he’s wanted back in America himself. He’s coming to see me to say good-bye some time to-night. He hoped to see you too.”
“A nice fellow,” Wharton said. “I doubt if he’ll see much of me to-night, though. Even if this business does pan out right, there’s another thing or two I’ve got to do.”
We went on to the upstair restaurant from which there would be an excellent view of the train when it backed in. A liaison man had been posted on the platform, and Wharton’s other three men were with us. One was in plus-fours and had a bag of clubs; another was obviously bound for a seaside holiday, and the third was a business man. They were scattered about the room and were having tea or coffee, and Wharton and I were at a window table and were having coffee too. Every time a taxi drew in he produced a pair of opera-glasses, though I thought it would be at least a half-hour’s taxi drive from her flat through the dense traffic of the morning. Then the train drew in. Wharton looked at his watch and said it was about time she was arriving. Then almost with the same breath he was saying, “This looks like her now.”
I spotted her even with my bat eyes, then we both lost her for a moment or two. But she was only calling another porter, for there was more luggage, both in the taxi and on top. Wharton nodded to one of his men to come across.
“A cock-eyed hat with a white feather thing in it,” he said. “Black and white handbag, black frock with a bit of white down the front. Get going, and don’t forget the corridor side.”
A minute or two later he got up to go too. His bag, suitably labelled, was downstairs, and there was a newspaper he had to buy. I waited till it was five minutes to the hour, then made my way to the barrier, keeping my head well down. Then I shot into the nearest door and began working my way along the corridor. At a spot which seemed well short of where Charlotte Craigne would be, I waited for Wharton’s man to contact me. Just before the train moved off he came by me.
“Two carriages after this, and four doors along,” he told me as he squeezed past. Then the whistle wen
t. There were the last scurryings in and out, and the slamming of doors, and then an almost imperceptible jerk. We were on our way, and all of us with only three choices, for the three stops were Chelmsford, Colchester and Harwich.
I had expected to be in a state of tremendous excitement, and yet I don’t think I had ever been less panicky than I was as I waited in that corridor till the train should have gone through the tunnels and come out to daylight again. Then at last it was light, and after another minute’s wait I made my way forward. The train seemed fairly full, but the firsts would almost certainly have plenty of room. Then suddenly I could see Wharton in his corner corridor seat, back to the engine. The door of the compartment was open, and the seat facing Wharton was empty.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, as I kicked against his boot. Then I was smiling apologetically again. “Sorry, but I thought this was a smoking compartment.”
As I went to back out I let my eyes meet Charlotte Craigne’s. She was terrified; there wasn’t any doubt about that. I had to be too concerned with my own surprise to notice hers.
“Good heavens!” I said, and sat down again. “What on earth are you doing here?”
She smiled wanly and I knew she was fighting to pull herself together.
“My dear, it’s too dreadful! Just after you rang me last night I was rung up by the police. Poor Rupert’s body has been found. And, my dear, where do you think? Near The Hague!”
“You poor soul,” I said. “And you’re going over to bring him back?”
She shook her head. “I think I shall have him buried there. They told me it could be arranged. But you,” she said; “what on earth are you doing here?”
“But I told you,” I said. “When I rang you last night; don’t you remember? Didn’t I say I had to go and meet some people? Just two business acquaintances,” I added indifferently. “Two Germans. They’re coming from Holland. That will be the same boat that you’re crossing on.”
“Oh, what a rush!” she said. “My dear, it was a perfect nightmare. Packing half the night and then rushing away this morning.”
“You’re looking a bit tired,” I said. “You’d better get back in your corner and have a wee nap.”
She said she probably would. I nodded and smiled as I backed into my own corner. The Belgian gentleman opposite me was reading an overnight French newspaper, but as I forgot myself and instinctively brought out my pipe, he saw the movement.
“It is not a smoking, pliz,” he told me in an English I could hardly make out.
I smiled an apology and replaced the pipe.
“Monsieur ne fume pas,” I said in my best French.
“Mais non, monsieur,” he told me quite amiably. “Ça dérange l’estomac.”
I bowed and smiled. He get on with his reading. I caught Charlotte Craigne’s eye. She made a moue and I grimaced.
You could feel a difference in the compartment after that. I knew she was no longer mistrusting me, and that comical Belgian was something like a fire at which we warmed our hands. I did a bit of reading, and began an assault on The Times crossword, and when I looked at Charlotte Craigne again, she was pretending to be asleep.
The train had long been travelling at speed, and as we neared Chelmsford she made an artistic awakening. I eased over in her direction.
“Shall I order you some coffee? I believe you can get it on this train.”
She shook her head.
“That’s very sweet of you, my dear, but I don’t think I could touch a thing.”
“I know,” I said sympathetically. Then I glanced back at the Belgian who seemed to be sound asleep, hands clasped across his ample stomach. “Funny old boy! What about your asking him if you may smoke?”
“I don’t feel like it this morning,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll have some coffee after all. This is Chelmsford, isn’t it?”
Then she was looking out of the window as the train slowed, and saying that of course it was. I pushed the bell for the attendant, and kept my eye on her all the time. But she didn’t seem interested in what was happening on the platforms, and then the Belgian woke up and made an interlude as he too ordered coffee. We all managed to drink it before the train began to rock again. Then I said I’d have a cigarette in the corridor.
When I came back to the compartment the Belgian began a conversation.
“We go fast, eh?” he said, and waved a hand at the landscape that hurtled past.
“Quite a good speed,” I said, and then tried my French again. Charlotte spoke French quite well and I knew her ears would be cocked.
“You know England fairly well?” I asked.
“Very little,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “But my daughter has just married an Englishman and I’ve spent a few days with them.”
“What part of England?” I asked politely.
“In Kent,” he said, and added that the country there was very different from Belgium.
“What part of Kent?”
A village near Sittingbourne, he said, and there the brief conversation ended, for he was asking where the lavatory was.
“Not a bad old chap after all.” I told Charlotte as soon as he’d gone.
“You speak French quite well,” she said. “I’d forgotten it was one of your accomplishments.”
But the remark sounded like a forced one, and it seemed to me she was nervous again. From Chelmsford to Colchester is under twenty miles, and in a moment the brakes began to drag as the train slowed.
She drew back to her corner and I nestled back in mine. As the train came to a stop the Belgian appeared again.
My heart had now begun to beat more quickly, but I tried to make my interest in the platform only a perfunctory one. As a matter of fact there was very little to see, at least near our compartment. The only passenger I saw get in was an elderly man with a pronounced stoop, and he looked something of an invalid, for he had a white muffler round his neck and made his way slowly along the corridor with the help of his stick. A porter was following with a small bag.
The train moved off again. I didn’t dare look at Charlotte Craigne, and then after a minute or two my heart was beating more steadily.
“Only about another quarter of an hour,” I said.
She merely nodded and gave a faint smile. I picked up my magazine and began reading it. A peep at Charlotte showed me she was again pretending to be dozing. I hastily wrote a sentence or two in the margin of the magazine and then gave an exclamation of surprise.
“This is extraordinary!” I told the Belgian in French. “Here are two pictures of the very town where you’ve been staying!”
I passed him the magazine, open at the place.
“Ah!” he said with quite an excitement, and began telling me about this and that which he recognised. Then suddenly he was on his feet and feeling his pockets. Then came a gasp of dismay.
“My gloves! I’ve left them in the lavatory!”
Off he went in search of them. I leaned back in my seat, but again I dare not look at Charlotte Craigne. When I did glance her way I could see the estuary, and through the open door came a faint whiff of the sea.
“Soon be there now,” I said. “No hurry, though. There’s always heaps of time to catch the boat if I remember rightly.”
“Heaps,” she said, but her fingers were fumbling nervously with her bag.
I leaned back in my corner again, and I was straining my ears to catch a sound, and that was foolish, for the noise of the train made other sounds unheard. Now I could feel my heart thumping against my ribs, and I began taking deep breaths to steady it. Then the brakes began to grip again and the train was imperceptibly slowing. Charlotte Craigne was getting to her feet.
“I think I’ve just time to powder my nose.”
“Heaps of time,” I said.
Then it seemed as if I could hear a faint scuffling. Then as I drew in my long legs to let Charlotte pass, the Belgian appeared in the doorway.
“Sit down, Mrs. Craigne,” he said, and
the voice was Wharton’s. “The game’s up.”
Her mouth gaped foolishly. I was scrambling to my feet. As I backed through the door, Wharton’s two men came in.
“Quick! Get hold of her arms!” Wharton was shouting.
I looked back and on the floor was a confused heap. There was a shriek, and the sound of it was so frightening that I found myself moving along the corridor, glasses in my hand. People were standing in doorways, and one or two were trying to pass. Then the train gave a jerk and had stopped. Wharton’s bellow was heard.
“Get back there, please! No business of yours, sir. Get back I tell you! There’s another door there. Use that.”
The shrieking had long since stopped. One of Wharton’s men came out to the door and stood on guard. Wharton moved on along the corridor. After what seemed minutes and minutes, I made my way forward too. Charlotte Craigne was still lying on the floor, her body now at full length.
“What’s the matter with her?” I found myself asking. “Has she fainted?”
“Too quick for us, sir. Grabbed something out of her bag and swallowed it. Cyanide by the smell of it.”
All I could do was nod. Then I was shaking my head and stepping down to the platform. A few yards back was a seat and I made my way to it. My thoughts were a mad whirl and I was suddenly feeling weak at the knees, and I was glad to sit down. The air was cold on my forehead and when I brushed my hand across it, it was damp with sweat.
“Going anywhere, sir?” a porter asked me, but I only shook my head. Where I was going was back to town, and by the train on which I had come. Somehow I knew I must dodge Wharton, and all at once I was making for the train again and bolting the door of a lavatory.
Minutes passed and at last I heard the engine as it went by on its way to back to the train. Then there was a jerk as it joined up again, and after a minute or two I ventured to look out. A porter caught sight of me and came up.
The Case of the Magic Mirror: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 21