The Case of the Missing Men: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  “You didn’t mind my taking the manuscript, sir?” he said. “Not in the least,” I said, and added the palliative that I’d be seeing it in print.

  He went on up the stairs, and then Goodman was looking out from the door of Chaice’s sanctum.

  The man who was on duty there had gone and he was alone. The weather had turned fine again and I couldn’t help thinking what a delightful room it was.

  “What was that about a manuscript?” Goodman asked, and added that he couldn’t help overhearing.

  I told him all about it.

  “A poet, is he?” he said. “A friend of yours?”

  “Not in the least,” I said. “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “There’s nothing much to say,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “Only if that’s the sort of product Oxford turns out, then I’m glad my boy’s never likely to go there.”

  “Speaking as a Cambridge man, thanks very much,” I said. “But about that cord. How did you get on?”

  “It’s the same stuff,” he told me impressively. “I’ve sent off the cut end to see if it tallies with the end of the cord that did the trick.”

  “Good,” I said. “And how did the cord get there?”

  “Richard bought it himself to repair sash-cords with,” he said. “He’s used some, but he doesn’t remember how much.”

  “Sash windows?” I said. “I didn’t remember there were any in the house. Those in my room have leaded lights.”

  “All the back of the house has them,” he said, and added that he hadn’t noticed any signs of abnormality about Richard Chaice.

  “I don’t wonder,” I said. “Ninety-nine hundredths of his time he’s a perfectly charming and normal man.”

  “What you’d call a natural gentleman.”

  “Exactly,” I said, and then he said that that reminded him, and he was handing me a copy of my statement of that morning. “There you are, sir,” he said. “Like to check it up?”

  “Inviting insults?” I said, and put it in my pocket, and just then Harris came in with coffee on a tray. He said he’d fetch another cup for me.

  “Did you hear the one o’clock news, gentlemen?” he asked us when he came back, and we said we hadn’t.

  “A very kind reference to the master,” he told us. “It spoke very highly of his work and how he’d be missed.”

  “It’s a queer thing,” I said to Goodman when he’d gone, “but I haven’t heard the wireless since I’ve been in this house.”

  “Meaning what?” he asked me over his cup.

  “I hardly know how to put it,” I said. “It just seems to illustrate something—how this house was completely centred round Austin Chaice and his work. His work dominated him. It was more of an obsession than work, because his very leisure was work. And this whole house revolved round his work. I know it got on Martin’s nerves,” I said, warming to the job of showing him just what I meant. “A war on, mind you, and yet I never once heard anyone ask for the news.”

  “But aren’t most authors like that?”

  “I doubt it,” I said, and I was wondering why he didn’t seem to regard that peculiar feeling of mine as important. Then it struck me that I should find it hard to put into words the impression that had suddenly been made on me by a realisation of that complete subordination of the house and its occupants to the work, or should I call it the obsession, of Austin Chaice himself. In any case, I changed the subject, for I was anxious to know if anything had happened about G. H. Preston.

  “He isn’t back yet,” Goodman told me. “He’ll probably come off one of the evening trains from town. All the same, I think he’s going to be a bit of a mare’s nest.”

  I must have looked hopelessly disappointed at that.

  “This is the position,” he said, “and I think you’ll see what I mean. He took the house on a monthly tenancy, and the business was handled by Morlands, the local agents. Mr. Chaice. I should have said, is the ground landlord. All those houses are on long lease. Mr. Preston applied personally to Morlands for the tenancy. Said he’d heard it was going, and he gave Mr. Chaice as a reference. Naturally that clinched the matter. Morlands rang Mr. Chaice, who said he’d be a good tenant. Now do you see, sir?”

  “Afraid I don’t,” I had to admit.

  “Well, then, that visit Preston paid to Mr. Chaice. That morning when he was very angry and Mr. Lang got rid of him. Why should he have been angry with Mr. Chaice? Because something was wrong about the house. You know how tenants are, so he came to complain to Mr. Chaice personally.” As I still didn’t show signs of comprehension, he went on. “Remember that Mr. Chaice said to Mr. Lang, ‘Oh, him!’ That shows he’d already approached Mr. Chaice about his grievance and Mr. Chaice had got fed up with him. And if Mr. Chaice hadn’t known him before, he wouldn’t have recommended him for the tenancy.”

  “But surely,” I said, “a tenant doesn’t approach the ground landlord? The ground landlord has nothing to do with matters. The contract was between the owner of the house and Preston. Morlands were the agents who drew up the contract and made the inventory, and in the absence of the owner they would deal with all complaints by the new tenant. Mr. Chaice didn’t even get his ground rent from the tenant. He still continued to get it from the owner.”

  I rather fancied he hadn’t thought of that, but he found a good enough answer.

  “All right, sir; we’ll take that as agreed,” he told me patiently. “So when Preston did approach Mr. Chaice, he was almost certainly told he was wrong. But Preston was a bit of a crank perhaps, and pig-headed, and he approached—wrote, I should have said—Mr. Chaice again, and then came to see him personally. Hence Mr. Chaice’s ‘Oh, him!’ Don’t you think that’s it?”

  I said it probably was, though it didn’t satisfy me by a long chalk. Then, as he seemed in such a coming-on disposition, I thought I’d try to get further information generally.

  “By the way, about the clothes Chaice was wearing. Naturally I touched nothing in the room, but he was wearing his cape and his hat was on the floor beside him. Were his clothes at all damp?”

  “Not in the least,” he said. “Should they have been?”

  “They shouldn’t,” I said. “There actually wasn’t any rain at all while Daine and I were out. Rain before and drizzle after, but no rain then. But about the hat. Was Chaice wearing it when he got that crack on the skull that knocked him out?”

  He rubbed his chin for a moment or two before he answered. Only a man of absolute integrity could have given that answer, and at once I had for him a vastly increased respect.

  “To tell the truth, sir, it was something that escaped my notice altogether.”

  It wasn’t his fault, and I told him so, and that I wasn’t trying to be superior. With his Chief Constable away, and short-handed in any case, he had had everything on his hands. I had had little to do but think.

  “Any chance of checking up on the hat now?” I asked. “There ought to be hair adhering to the inside of the crown.”

  He clicked his tongue, then gave a sheepish grin.

  “That hat’s at my office. The last I saw of it was when I went in, and there was the man on duty at the telephone passing the time by giving it a good brush.”

  I had to laugh. It was easy to guess the kind of man he had to make use of in wartime.

  “After all, it doesn’t matter so much,” I said. “But do you remember if the hat was at all damp or dirty?”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, and was picking up the receiver. When he was through he was asking for the man who’d been upset at the sight of a dirty hat.

  “No mud or dirt on the outside? . . . Only a bit dusty? . . . Yes, that’s all.”

  “There we are then, sir,” he told me as he put the receiver back.

  “That complicates matters,” I said.

  “Just what was in your mind?”

  “This,” I said, and paused. “Mind if we approach it from another angle?”

  “Any angle you
like, sir.”

  “Then don’t take this question wrongly,” I said. “But this room when you first saw it. Did anything strike you as odd about it?”

  He rubbed his chin.

  “Can’t say there did.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t there,” I said. “But I thought those rucks on the carpet there were a bit too regularly placed.” I pointed to the chalk-marks. “Practically all lateral, so to speak. None of them criss-cross as they should have been if he put up anything of a fight. And the room gave the impression of a struggle.”

  He had got to his feet and was having a good look down.

  “But there wasn’t a struggle,” he said. “He was knocked out before being strangled!”

  “Then why the impression of one?”

  “I get you,” he said. “It was faked.”

  “Let’s look at something else,” I went on. “Here’s where the vase of roses fell, and here’s where the water spilled out of it. Anything peculiar about that water?”

  “Looks all right to me . . . at first glance.”

  “But the water made a regular pool, and just in front of the mouth of the vase. Is that what should have happened?”

  “Good God, no!” he said. “The vase was knocked over. Therefore the water started spilling before it hit the ground. If not, the jar would have splashed it everywhere.”

  “What were the roses like?”

  “Just scattered around.”

  “There we are, then,” I said. “Chaice wasn’t killed here at all. His body was dumped in here and the room was arranged—and it had to be done damn quickly, mind you—to give the impression that he’d been attacked here.”

  “Yes,” he said, and then whipped round. “Where was he killed, then?”

  “My guess is as good as yours,” I said. “For what it’s worth, mine is that he was struck on the head by someone who followed him back to the house here. Perhaps he was struck just outside the door here. If his hat fell off it would have been on wet grass or wet gravel. That’s why I asked about it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, and frowned to himself for a minute. “But who could have followed him here?”

  “Maybe we’ll have to change our ideas about Mr. Preston,” I told him.

  And that was when the telephone bell went. I didn’t listen to the conversation more than I could help, but from his respectful tone I gathered he was talking to his Chief Constable. My name was mentioned, and about my being present at something. It was a good five minutes before he hung up.

  “The Chief’s coming back by the six-ten,” he told me. “He’s got the details of the will and he wants to read them to all those concerned. I’ve got to round them up, and we’d like you to be present.”

  “What’s the idea?” I said. “Hoping to gather something from their reactions?”

  “That’s it,” he said, and grimaced. I gathered he hadn’t been wholly in favour.

  “What’s your Chief like?” I asked unconcernedly.

  He gave me a quick look, then smiled rather enigmatically.

  “Well, sir, he’s not quite so modern as some. A real gentleman though, and one of the best to work with . . . or under.”

  I gathered a good deal from those last two words, but before I could pursue the subject further he was getting to his feet.

  “Well, thank you very much, sir, for what you’ve done. I’ll see that you know the time of that meeting about the will. Oh, and one thing you might do for us. Make out a list of times for you and Mr. Daine last night. As near as you can get them.” I said I’d have to consult with Daine about that. He said he hated to hurry me, but he’d like to get to work on them before the arrival of his Chief. That was why I at once went across to the annexe, and why I happened to see Daine and Martin parting in the vicinity of the garage.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE WILL

  “Hallo, young fellow,” I said to Martin. “Taking a bit of fresh air?”

  “That’s the idea, sir.” I’d never seen him looking so pleased with himself. Then he added that he was expecting to be busy for a day or two.

  “Writing?”

  “Yes,” he said importantly. “I’ve had one or two ideas. I don’t know how it struck you, sir, but I think that volume of mine might be on the short side. Perhaps another half-dozen poems might give it just the length.”

  I agreed hypocritically enough. I didn’t care how many of those damn poems he added provided I didn’t have to read them first. So we parted friendlily enough and I went on to the annexe. Daine was in his room, and he was purple with fury.

  “What do you think that damn conceited young puppy is up to now?”

  “Lord knows,” I said.

  He waved me fussily to a chair and his voice lowered.

  “Not a word about this, but this is what he had the nerve to tell me. That he’d seen his father yesterday and he’d agreed to have that blasted book of poems published! Can you beat it?”

  “You mean it’s all lies?”

  “Lies? Of course it’s all lies.” He had realised he was shouting, and his voice dropped dramatically, though his hand was still gesturing fiercely. “Austin loathed the sight of those damn poems. Mental abortions was what he called them. I’m absolutely sure he never changed his mind.”

  “Well, I think Master Martin quite capable of a little sharp practice,” I said. “Obviously he thought that now his father was dead you, as literary executor, could be hot-stuffed into anything.”

  “Literary executor be damned!” exploded Daine. “I must have been a fool ever to have told Chaice I’d do the job. I only agreed because I knew I’d never have to do it. Look at me”—and he waved at the trays on the desk. “And look at the staff I’ve got.”

  “It’s going to be pretty tough,” I said. “But about Martin. What was your attitude?”

  A cautious look came over his face.

  “You’re keeping this to yourself?”

  “Didn’t I say so?”

  He grunted a kind of apology and asked me if I considered him a business man.

  “I consider you a super-business man,” I told him. “And quite capable of handling Martin.”

  “Good of you to say so. But this is what I’ve done. And what I’m proposing to do. I’ve given him my O.K. . . . I’ll find a publisher, and if I can’t, then the cost of publication will be borne by the literary side of the estate.”

  “But you can’t do that?”

  He gave his impish grin.

  “I know I can’t. All I’m doing is stringing him along. And this is why. He’s got Constance behind him. If I antagonise her, then she will probably have the power to get me out of here. I’m not ready to go yet. But I shall be. This war isn’t going to last much longer, and I’ll get another place in town. Then I’ll calmly inform Master Martin that there’s a snag about paying for the publication out of the estate. I’ll say there has to be written evidence that that was his father’s explicit orders.”

  I grinned too.

  “Didn’t I say you could handle him?”

  “You think the idea’s a good one?”

  “It’s superlative,” I said. “But I’ve got to waste some of your valuable time.”

  He took it philosophically enough, especially when I assured him it wouldn’t be a matter of more than ten minutes. As a matter of fact it took us a quarter of an hour, and these are the times at which we arrived.

  Chaice leaves Lovelands 8.45

  Chaice knocks at door 8.57

  I thought I remembered hearing a distant clock in the town strike the hour, which was why I was so sure about that last timing.

  Chaice leaves house 9.35

  Chaice enters gate of No. 3 9.38

  Travers returns to No. 6 9.53

  Travers and Daine see Harris 10.12

  The latter was proved by the fact that I happened to glance at my watch just after I’d glanced at the body, and the time then was ten-fifteen.

  Goodman was in Chai
ce’s room and Sergeant Smith with him. He thanked me for the list of times and said Harris had been looking for me. Harris was in the hall when I came out.

  “Here you are, sir,” he said. “The mistress’s compliments, sir, and will you have tea with her in her room. She doesn’t feel equal to coming down.”

  “Delighted,” I said. “How long will tea be?”

  “Now, sir,” he told me. “As soon as you’re ready.”

  I didn’t realise how quickly the afternoon had gone. By the time I’d had a quick polish it was well after four o’clock.

  The room looked cheerful with the afternoon sun lighting the bowl of roses and gay curtains and chintzes. Constance was reclining on a settee under the big window and she was dressed, and by that I mean she wasn’t flopping around in a dressing-gown. Not that she’d have looked floppy in anything.

  “Dear Ludo,” she said gushingly. “I’m so delighted you’re staying on for a bit. You’re such a support.”

  “Anything, provided I’m not a nuisance,” I said.

  “You couldn’t be that,” she told me, and then Harris came in with the tray. It looked as if we were going to do ourselves well, what with hot tea-cake, sandwiches of two sorts, and a delicious-looking sponge sandwich cake.

  “The chess things have been found, madame,” Harris announced dramatically as he removed with a flourish the cover of the tea-cake.

  “Really! Where did you find them, Harris?”

  “In the drawer of the hall table, madame.”

  She stared.

  “But that’s preposterous! I looked in there myself!”

  “I’m sorry, madame, but that’s where they were.”

  “But it’s absurd.” She looked at me for confirmation. “There was nothing in that drawer, Harris, but a duster.”

  Harris bowed an agreement but said nothing. She frowned and then told him that he might go. Then she rounded on me as if I’d touched the damn things.

  “Perhaps it was the fairies,” I suggested.