The Case of the Magic Mirror: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  “Ah! Othello,” George said, and gave a reminiscent nod as if his inward eye saw the very stage. A sigh and he was turning to go. “Well, I must be on my way. And I know my own way out.”

  We saw him to the lift for all that, and we even watched till the top of the lift was out of sight.

  “That was a hot one you pulled about Rupert Craigne,” Frank told me admiringly as soon as we turned. “And talk about skating over thin ice!”

  “Since I’ve known you I’ve told more lies than in all the rest of my life,” I told him, and I hoped witheringly. “And how you had the nerve to trot out that Othello gag absolutely takes my breath away. You can grin,” I said, “but let me drive this into that feather-pated brain of yours. Keep out of Wharton’s way if you have any regard for me. If he ever gets an idea of the truth, I’ll be eternally damned.”

  “Very good, sir,” he told me amusedly. “We still hope to continue the Prince and Holloway service. And now what about a drink?”

  We sat on yarning about Halstead and heaven knows what till best part of midnight. I asked him what job he’d be on next.

  “Between you and me,” he said, “I may be doing the one thing I’ve always wanted to do. You think there’s going to be a war?”

  “I do,” I said. “And what’s more, I’ve got a job.”

  “I’m going to get one too,” he said. “As soon as the balloon goes up I’ll be doing what I’ve always wanted to do—drive a tank.”

  Well, that’s that, and the wheel has gone full circle. I’ve just read through what I’ve written and I’ve been wondering if that challenge I threw out was exactly fair. On the whole I think it was. You should have gathered all along that I’d never got that money from Charlotte and that therefore she was in things up to the neck. The rest was adding this and that and getting the right answer, and if you got that answer, well, you were a cleverer one than I.

  What about Frank? Well, he did drive a tank. I got in touch with his uncle last night, and he told me Frank was in that retreat to El Alamein, and that was all he knew. But somehow I can’t believe he’s dead. Missing, if you like, and a prisoner, but not dead. And if he’s a prisoner, then he won’t be so long, if I know anything about him. With his grin and brazen impudence and low cunning he’s probably by this time impersonated an Italian general. Wherever he is, good luck to him, and if he’s under the sand, then God rest his cheerful soul.

  The mirror? Well, I wish you hadn’t asked that question. Maybe Charlotte Craigne did away with it after all. I’ve never troubled to inquire although I’m pretty sure the executors would have let me have it if it had been found in her wardrobe. But that mirror hanging over my mantelpiece would have been too much of a reminder. Some things in this life are best forgotten, as I hinted to Bernice only this morning.

  T H E E N D

  About The Author

  Christopher Bush was born Charlie Christmas Bush in Norfolk in 1885. His father was a farm labourer and his mother a milliner. In the early years of his childhood he lived with his aunt and uncle in London before returning to Norfolk aged seven, later winning a scholarship to Thetford Grammar School.

  As an adult, Bush worked as a schoolmaster for 27 years, pausing only to fight in World War One, until retiring aged 46 in 1931 to be a full-time novelist. His first novel featuring the eccentric Ludovic Travers was published in 1926, and was followed by 62 additional Travers mysteries. These are all to be republished by Dean Street Press.

  Christopher Bush fought again in World War Two, and was elected a member of the prestigious Detection Club. He died in 1973.

  By Christopher Bush

  and available from Dean Street Press

  The Plumley Inheritance

  The Perfect Murder Case

  Dead Man Twice

  Murder at Fenwold

  Dancing Death

  Dead Man’s Music

  Cut Throat

  The Case of the Unfortunate Village

  The Case of the April Fools

  The Case of the Three Strange Faces

  The Case of the 100% Alibis

  The Case of the Dead Shepherd

  The Case of the Chinese Gong

  The Case of the Monday Murders

  The Case of the Bonfire Body

  The Case of the Missing Minutes

  The Case of the Hanging Rope

  The Case of the Tudor Queen

  The Case of the Leaning Man

  The Case of the Green Felt Hat

  The Case of the Flying Donkey

  The Case of the Climbing Rat

  The Case of the Murdered Major

  The Case of the Kidnapped Colonel

  The Case of the Fighting Soldier

  The Case of the Magic Mirror

  The Case of the Running Mouse

  The Case of the Platinum Blonde

  The Case of the Corporal’s Leave

  The Case of the Missing Men

  Christopher Bush

  The Case of the Running Mouse

  “Is he bad, sir?”

  “Worse than that,” I said. “In fact, he’s dead.”

  1943. Ludovic Travers, consulting specialist for Scotland Yard, is on a fortnight’s well-earned leave in London from his military posting. Anticipating relaxation, he is instead thrown into a fresh mystery by a letter from one Peter Worrack, the owner of a genteel gambling club.

  Worrack’s business partner, Georgina, has disappeared. Or has she? Ludo rapidly has doubts, but the reasons for any deception remain obscure until he takes on the case, and finds that the clues he’ll need to consider include the jokes of a radio comedian, a handful of jaded club-goers, the novelty of a mouse in the wainscoting—and someone desperate enough to commit murder most foul.

  The Case of the Running Mouse was originally published in 1944. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  Part One

  THE RELUCTANT AMATEUR

  CHAPTER I

  FIND THE LADY

  It was on a February morning, in 1943, that I had what I shall always regard as one of the most gratifying surprises of my life. I doubt, too, if I can find anything commensurate in general experience to convey to you how great the surprise was. That it was a mistake did not matter in the least, for it was a mistake by which I could legitimately profit. Perhaps the thrill I got was the kind that comes to a naval lieutenant when he is given command of a ship and a roving commission at that. Or a humble servant of Intelligence perhaps, who, after years of decoding, is suddenly told he is to be dumped down in Germany as a master spy. However, perhaps I had better explain.

  In the previous autumn I had missed seven days’ leave, and when later I had the chance to take it I preferred to wait till the next leave was due, and have one glorious burst of fourteen days. The one snag turned out to be that my own leave did not happen to coincide with the short leave that was due to my wife, who had been transferred to a hospital up north. But I had no fear of time lying heavy on my hands. London is my spiritual home and as I had not seen it for five months I was anticipating a crowded fortnight.

  Our flat in St. Martin’s Chambers had long since been given up as far too commodious for war-time, and we had taken a little furnished affair on the east side of Kensington. Its three rooms were ample, and service meals were available; and as the different in rent was considerably in our favour and some sort of pied-à-terre seemed essential, we saw no reason to regret the expense. I arrived there rather late that February afternoon, and after a bath and a change into mufti, treated myself to one of the service teas. Then I rang up Scotland Yard.

  George Wharton was away, I was told, but expected back in a day or so, when he would be given my message. I was rather disappointed at that, for I had looked forward to taking George out to lunch and hearing about his latest activities. Before the war, George—Superintendent Wharton to you—and I had worked together on a score or so of cases. A bit presumptuous perhaps, my talking of working together, thoug
h George would always have it that way. I had begun by being called in on a certain case as the financial expert I was supposed to be, and what I was able to contribute turned out to be of considerable use. It so happened, too, that my flibbertigibbet, crossword kind of brain took George’s fancy, and when his next case materialised he felt lonely with nobody around as an amiable mascot. Besides, we had grown uncommonly fond of each other, and, to cut a long story short, whenever anything in the nature of a tricky case turned up from then on, he either contrived to bring me somewhere near the spot or else had me flagrantly called in as a consultative expert. And now, perhaps, you have spotted why I rang up the Yard about George. What I had fondly hoped to hear was that he was engaged on some case that might not be without interest, in which event I should have spent some of my fortnight on a busman’s holiday. That confession also gives you a good inkling of the distance I have travelled from grace since I first worked with George. Then I had a horror of duplicity. Now, thanks to ten years of his influence and three in the Army, I am not only an accomplished and unblushing liar, but have up my sleeve tricks that would make a quartermaster mute with jealous rage.

  I went to a show that first night of my leave, and in the morning took my time about getting up. When the service breakfast appeared, the maid brought with it a letter she had found on the mat. And that, I knew at once, was curious, for the letter was a private one. Everyone likely to send me a private letter knew my military address, and this letter, moreover, had not been forwarded from St. Martin’s Chambers. Perhaps it was a begging letter of sorts, I thought as I opened it, but even then I was rather puzzled for my address at Norfolk Mansions was not in the telephone book. Then, when I began the letter, I was more puzzled still.

  Flat 34,

  Dromore

  Knightsbridge.

  Feb. — 1943

  Dear Mr. Travers . . .

  That was the immediate surprise. Not Major Travers, but Mr. Travers, and I trust you will believe me when I say that in the surprise was no suspicion of snobbery. It was just that for two years I had seen myself as Major Travers, and that abrupt return to the incredible days of pre-war was just a bit of a jolt. So I turned the letter over to see the name of the writer.

  Yours truly,

  P. WORRACK

  was what I read, and the name conveyed nothing on earth, so I turned the letter over again and began to read it.

  Dear Mr. Travers,

  I want to consult your firm on a matter of particular secrecy, and shall be glad if you will either make an appointment at your office or call and see me. I rang your old address at St. Martin’s Chambers and was given your new one but they didn’t appear to know where your office was.

  The reason I rang you was that I remembered seeing your name in connection with Scotland Yard, which gave me, if you will pardon my saying so, a guarantee of the kind of firm yours is, for in the circumstances in which I now find myself, I should hesitate to employ a detective agency that was not of the highest class.

  I am not a wealthy man but I shall be prepared to pay any retaining or other fees that are usual. I know also that it is a lot to ask but I should be glad if you could attend to me as I am not disposed to put the matter in the hands of any subordinate, however trustworthy. Needless to say I am prepared to pay accordingly.

  Yours truly,

  P. WORRACK

  The Travers Detective Agency,

  (At) Norfolk Mansions,

  E. Kensington.

  I read that letter a second time, and my first reaction was a feeble smile. Then I was really interested, and, strangely enough as it may seem to you, just the least bit nervous. It was not that the letter didn’t seem genuine enough, for there was no doubt in my mind about that. My name had appeared often enough at coroners’ inquests and in courts of law. Moreover, the hall porter at St. Martin’s Chambers was a new man, and when asked for a Mr. Travers would naturally have said merely that Mr. Travers was now at such-and-such an address.

  What intrigued me was that I should have been taken for the head of a private detective agency, and as such should be about to be consulted on a matter of delicacy and importance. There was I, in fact, for years a colleague and often very much a subordinate of George Wharton, being asked and almost implored to undertake some case or other entirely off my own bat. And this had happened with fourteen days’ leave in front of me. On a gold salver there was being offered me the kind of job I had longed for all my life. Why then, you may ask, the uneasiness?

  Well, you know how things are. In our day-dreams we see ourselves performing the heroic and incredible with a craft and aplomb that years of futility have kept in repression. Maybe you have been yourself in some giant bomber, roaring across Germany at roof height, manoeuvring over Berchtesgaden and dropping an eight-thousand-pounder plumb on Hitler, and then shooting down a dozen or so of Focke-Wolfs on the way home. We will omit the resultant Victoria Cross and the world acclaim, and pause to wonder in cold blood just how we should feel if a Lancaster were suddenly to materialise and we were hoisted into it. That was how I felt at suddenly undertaking the role of a first-class private sleuth.

  For one thing, I look about as like a detective as the Archbishop of Canterbury. Before the war I might, perhaps, have been regarded, if with some amusement, as a kind of neophyte or apprentice, for my clean-shaven face was then somewhat pallid, and my horn-rims gave me the look of an earnest intellectual who was groping for his real metier. My six foot three, a leanness of frame, and a genteel stoop, might have helped the illusion, but now my glasses are less obvious, my face tanned, my back is straight and my tooth-brush moustache looks almost aggressive. My vocabulary, too, is far from intellectual, and has become garnished with slang and expletives that are my wife’s dismay and despair.

  But I knew from the very first that it was only a question of time before I should be getting in touch with the unknown Worrack. What worried me was just how I was to convince my client, and then, in a matter of moments, that uneasiness disappeared. After all, I should not be committed to undertaking whatever commission it was that he had in mind for me, for I could listen to all he had to say and then back out, and I knew at least a couple of reputable firms whom I could recommend as more in his line. Nor had I any doubt of my powers of duplicity and conviction. Three years of Army conferences, and inspections, and extemporisings are quite good training for nimbleness of manoeuvre. In fact, it was when I realised my own adequacy that I suddenly found myself dialling the Knightsbridge number on Worrack’s letter.

  “Hallo?” a voice said. A man’s voice, and what I might call the voice of a man of the world.

  “Mr. Worrack?” I asked.

  “Speaking.”

  I gave a Whartonian grunt and cleared my voice.

  “This is Ludovic Travers, Mr. Worrack,” I said. “I’ve just received your letter. I shall be glad to see you.” He was cutting in but I went hastily on. “I’m very much of a free-lance these days. Loss of staff, and office, and all that, but you know how things are. Would your flat suit you?”

  “Splendidly,” he said. “When can you come? At once?”

  “In an hour?” I said, and glanced at my watch. “Ten o’clock precisely, that will be.”

  “I’ll be here. And I’m much obliged to you.”

  “Not at all,” I said lamely, and then almost added something about business being business. But there was a click as he rang off, and that was that. The receiver was still in my hand when I knew the extent to which I had committed myself, and when I had replaced it, I think I was smiling rather fatuously and then feeling for my glasses, which is an old trick of mine when at a mental loss or on the edge of discovery. Another minute, and I was setting about my breakfast and deciding on a certain brown suit which was neat and far from gaudy.

  Dromore Place was a quarter of an hour’s walk, and as the morning was sunny I made the mile journey on foot. I had three minutes to spare when I reached the block of flats, and a highly select block it se
emed. Flat 34 was on the second floor, and as I tapped at the door my watch showed ten o’clock to the second. Nothing like punctuality to impress a client, I told myself complacently, and then composed my face to something of austerity as the door opened.

  Worrack was a man of about forty, so my first glance at him told me. A second later I thought he was rather older than that, perhaps, because, as he turned towards me, the light from the side window showed the wrinkles round his eyes. But it was a most attractive face, and his voice was as pleasant a baritone as it had sounded over the ’phone.

  “You’re Mr. Travers?” he said, and smiled.

  “And you’re Mr. Worrack?”

  Already he had been ushering me in. Five foot ten was his height and his build rather slim. As he drew back to close the door I noticed he was slightly lame.

  “Shall we sit here?” he said, and waved a hand at the couple of easy chairs by the electric fire. I took a quick look round the room, which was large and airy, for it was a corner one and had two large windows. A door, slightly ajar, was to my right, and a closed door to the left. In the air were two faint scents. The stronger was the kind one sniffs in a club smoking-room, and underneath it was a rather tantalising smell of some attractive perfume.

  “Do let me take your hat,” he said as I was placing it on the carpet beside my chair.

  “No, no,” I said. “I’m not expecting to be here all that long, Mr. Worrack.”