The Case of the Missing Men: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  “The fairies!”

  “Just a little private joke in our flat,” I said. “If Bernice or I have lost anything, we say those damn fairies have been at it again.”

  “I see. Just like household gremlins.”

  “You’ve got it,” I said, and changed the subject by asking how she was.

  “Just a bit limp,” she said. “Perfectly ghastly, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t go through it again for worlds.”

  “Yes,” I said. “A bad business. And likely to be worse for the one who did it.”

  “Who was it, Ludo?” Her hand touched my sleeve. “Could it have been some tramp? Or a soldier? One does read the most dreadful things about soldiers.”

  I told her I hadn’t the faintest notion, but that Goodman would probably know in a very short time. I said that to get her in the right state of perturbation for the next question.

  “Tell me, Constance, strictly between ourselves. When you told me on the telephone that evening that you were frightened, had you any idea of what might happen?”

  Then she was frightened. That hand that held the tea-cake was trembling and she was gaining time by putting it back on the plate and wiping her mouth with the paper napkin.

  “But, my dear, how could I have had any idea!”

  “All you were frightened about, then, was that anonymous letter mentioning the liquid-squirting?”

  “But of course.” Then she had to say too much. “Perhaps I did feel a something. You know, like when people say they feel something in their bones. Perhaps I’m psychic.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But for God’s sake don’t tell Goodman so.”

  “And why not?”

  I sighed and then tried a more direct approach.

  “When I came in just now you told me I was a support. I’ll put that a different way. I’m trying to be a cushion between you and the police.”

  For a moment she was badly scared again. To hear Constance stammer was an experience.

  “But why . . . I mean . . .” Then she managed to smile. “But what have I got to do with the police?”

  “Goodman has questioned you, hasn’t he?”

  “In a polite way—yes. He’s a very charming man.”

  “Exactly. That’s his first bedside manner. The first turn of the screw. Wait till he gets nasty.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Well, as soon as things don’t begin to explain themselves, he’ll be questioning you and everybody else again. He’ll want details of your movements and he’ll ask you to tell him about other people’s. He’ll go into every detail of your life, present and past. If you refuse to answer, then he’ll put you in the witness-box at the inquest where you’ll be made to answer in public.”

  “But what questions could he ask?”

  “Anything,” I said. “Whether you were thinking of marrying again, perhaps.”

  Her lips parted at that. I went ruthlessly on.

  “He’ll probably deduce from what he gathers from other people that your feelings towards Austin had changed, so he may even ask you if you were already carrying on an intrigue with some other man.”

  Her face went a sudden and violent red. Then she was coughing into her napkin and explaining at last that a crumb had gone the wrong way. Then once more she could smile, if only feebly.

  “You’re being ridiculous, Ludo. You’re not a cushion. You’re a bogey man.”

  “An apt retort,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  We talked about all sorts of things while she toyed with her food. Then she told me that at six forty-five we were all to assemble in the drawing-room to hear the details of Austin’s will.

  “I thought it was always done after the funeral,” she said sadly, as if she didn’t know. “But perhaps that Inspector knows better. But I know I shall make a fool of myself,” she went on, and tried then and there to summon a preliminary tear. Then she sighed instead and said, “Poor Austin!”

  That was about all, except that when I was leaving she thanked me warmly.

  “You always were a darling,” she ended. “And do go on being a cushion.”

  I’d have liked to have a key-hole peep when the door closed on me so that I could have seen her face and watched her reactions. But when I got downstairs I lurked in the cloakroom till I heard Harris upstairs. Then I sprinted quietly up again and managed to waylay him as he took the tray towards the servants’ stairs. Perhaps he wondered what I was doing there, but if he did he gave no sign. What I noticed was that Constance had had quite a good meal after I left. That she knew a good deal about Austin’s death was plain enough, at least, as I had seen things. That she was immediately concerned seemed to me better than an even-money bet.

  The Chief Constable—Colonel Marney-Hope—didn’t take a deal of summing up. He was a man of well over sixty: the type so popular with Watch Committees not so long ago, when fine figureheads, well in with the County, seemed far more desirable than working policemen who had learned their jobs in the hard and only school. When Goodman had called Marney-Hope a gentleman he had certainly been right. He had delightful manners, urbanity and obvious tact; in fact the best type of Army officer and definitely an anti-Blimp. Goodman had been even more right when he had said his Chief was a good man to work under as opposed to with. It didn’t take long to discover that Marney-Hope would leave his senior subordinates to their jobs, if only for the plain reason that his knowledge of those jobs was little more than sketchy. That he should himself suggest and undertake that business of reading Chaice’s will was no interference with Goodman; it was merely an indication that he was Chief Constable, officially in charge of the case and always to be taken into consideration.

  Goodman introduced me to him in Chaice’s room, and, as I said, I found him perfectly charming. He thanked me for what I had done, said that Wharton had most strongly recommended him and Goodman to make use of me, and then he began searching his mind for various Traverses he had known. When he mentioned at last one who had been Commandant at—in his young days, and I said that was my father, he was positively delighted, and I was at once a member of that Inner Circle in which blood has no relation to brains.

  Goodman cut across those initiation ceremonies with the remark that he feared that time-list of mine wouldn’t be much help after all.

  “Impossible to pin the other people down,” he told me. “That drawing-room seems to have been a kind of cloakroom from all I can make out. A regular sort of popping-in-and-out place, and nobody can give me any reliable times. The only fixture was Richard Chaice. Whenever anybody went in, he was there, and when they went out they left him there.”

  “All the same, an inside job. Don’t you agree, Travers?”

  “There’s every indication of it,” I said warily, and hoping Marney-Hope wouldn’t pursue the question farther. But he did. “And only a man could have done it.”

  “On the face of it—yes,” I said. “But that isn’t to say a woman mightn’t have been behind it.”

  He gave me a sharp look at that and then nodded genially. “Ah, yes, of course. Cherchez la femme and all that.”

  Then Harris came in to announce that everything was ready. Marney-Hope fussed a bit over his papers and then had to make a final speech before we adjourned to the drawing-room.

  “I think you and Goodman will get on admirably together,” he told me. “I’ve known the Inspector for years and he knows my opinion of him. In fact, between ourselves, we hope to be calling him Chief-Inspector very shortly.”

  That was handsomely said and I didn’t know what to add. I did manage to get out that I was sure it was a promotion well deserved, and what little I could do I’d be pleased to do.

  “You can’t say more than that, my boy,” he told me, and gave a preparatory clearing of the throat. “Better make a move, I think. Can’t keep people on parade.”

  So off to the drawing-room we went. It seemed a sparse audience for that large room, and yet everybody concerned was t
here except the chauffeur, who was absent on service. A table had been placed for the Chief Constable, and Goodman and I sat somewhat to the side—or should I have said on the flank? I imagined the job of Goodman and myself was to watch the faces of the fortunate legatees.

  I won’t go into details, but here is my own summary compiled that night for future reference. The will, by the way, dated from 1942, and here are the main provisions:

  (a) £10,000 pounds to Constance, together with the house and contents. Reversion of house, etc., to Martin or Kitty or their heirs at her death or on remarriage.

  Poise of Constance perfect. Her eyes remained downcast and she finally dabbed at them with her handkerchief.

  (b) £10,000, in trust—trustees Daine and Richard Chaice—for Martin. The principal to revert to him either at age of thirty or when he had for three consecutive years earned by his own efforts an amount of not less than five hundred a year.

  Minor sensation in court. All eyes discreetly on Martin. Martin, arms folded and slightly Napoleonic, quite unmoved. Thought I caught, however, a superior smile.

  (c) £7,500 to Kitty. No reservations.

  Kitty smiled, then realised the lack of decorum and looked grim. Her eyes puckered and she began quietly to cry. Constance put her arm round her and in a moment the crying ceased. Martin gave the same superior smile.

  (d) To Cuthbert Daine the sum of £10,000. Provisions for the literary executorship and for suitable payment for those duties and remuneration through royalties on a sliding scale.

  No reaction on the part of Daine except that he buried his face in his hand at the mention of his name. Marney-Hope added that further details were with the solicitors.

  (e) £1,000 to Orford Lang if still in his employ.

  Lang also cupped his face in his hand, but I could see that his cheek was flushed. Constance’s head turned his way and as quickly turned back.

  (f) £1,000 to George Arthur Harris, or, if not in his employ, a pension of £150.

  Perfect poise on the part of Harris.

  (g) £1,000 to the chauffeur, or, if killed on service, the same sum to his widow and/or children.

  Lastly came Richard Chaice, and why he came last I did not know, unless it was because the original provisions had stood and his peculiar circumstance had meant additions that had then demanded a new will.

  (h) An annuity of £250 to Richard Chaice. If he so wished, the estate would convert the rooms above the garage into a flat for his use, and the workshop should be his property for life or until he chose to relinquish.

  Richard’s eyes were squinting as if he couldn’t hear very well, but at the end he nodded to himself once or twice. I missed Constance’s reactions, but Kitty turned and smiled at him.

  That was that, except that the estate would probably amount to about £75,000. Remainder, after payment of legacies and duties, was Constance’s for life. Reversion on death or remarriage to Martin and Kitty in equal shares, or their heirs.

  I must say I admired Constance’s self-possession as she left the room. She must have been feeling rather exultant, and yet the only thing visible on her face was a noble grief. One felt that money could not bring back a loved one; at least, that must have been what Marney-Hope thought, for he shook her solemnly by the hand, though I didn’t catch the murmured words. I was following the general exit towards the dining-room. Daine turned off towards the hall and so did Lang. Richard disappeared in the direction of the servants’ quarters.

  “Rather rough on you, Martin,” Kitty was saying.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t want to sound cattish or anything like that, but it will be jolly rough if you don’t earn that five hundred a year.”

  “I should worry,” he told her flippantly. “Five hundred a year’s chicken feed.”

  “Not out of writing poetry it won’t be.”

  “Like to bet?” he asked her sarcastically. “Like to bet I don’t make five hundred in the next twelve months?”

  “I think you’re hateful!”

  That was all I heard, for they were entering the dining-room, and to have followed on their heels would have been a bit too obvious. What I did was to go back to Chaice’s room. Marney-Hope was just preparing to leave, and I gathered that Goodman hadn’t given too promising a report on the watching of reactions. He shook hands with me warmly and said he’d be seeing me again, and that when everything was cleared up I must have dinner one night.

  “What now?” I asked Goodman when we’d returned to Chaice’s room.

  “Calling round at No. 6,” he said. “Preston ought to be home at any minute now. After that I’ll have another go at those timings. Something might emerge.”

  I asked him to let me know what happened with Preston, and that again was that. I dressed for dinner and had a chat with Daine while he finished dressing. The talk was mostly about the will. He was glad about Richard and Lang and Kitty, and very sceptical about Martin’s chances. Constance wasn’t mentioned, but we did agree that Austin Chaice had never been a piker. Considering what the death duties would be, it was a very liberal disposal of the estate, and pretty fair to all.

  Nothing happened at dinner. Constance preferred to dine in her room after all. Martin wasn’t there. Kitty said disapprovingly that he had gone down town to celebrate. As he hadn’t struck me as anything of a tippler, I wondered what form the celebration would take. Daine was at the head of the table and I and Lang were with him. Richard was at the other end with Kitty. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, though they seemed cheerful enough. We were talking mostly about Chaice’s unfinished novels, and that manual for detective-story writers that had brought me to Lovelands.

  After dinner, which was quite late, Daine went back to his office to dictate some stuff, for the day’s interruptions had left him badly behind, and the next morning he had to go to town. It wasn’t always possible, he said, to get clients and certainly publishers to come down to Beechingford, so he had set aside Wednesdays for the purpose. Lang had work too, so after coffee there were three of us in the drawing-room. Richard, I noticed, hadn’t got very far with his book, and while I was talking with him Kitty disappeared. Then I thought I’d get a breath of air before turning in.

  I lighted my pipe in the hall, and as a light was coming from under the door of Chaice’s room, I took a look in. The door was locked, but one of Goodman’s men opened it and told me he was sort of night-watchman there. So I went on outdoors. The sky was a bit cloudy, and but for the sound of distant planes the air was very still. I took a few steps on the grass and then had the idea of taking a peep at that summerhouse.

  That boundary line of shrubbery and pollarded poplar was nothing but an unbroken blackness, and once more I failed to hit it plumb. This time I didn’t know if I was to the right or left of the summerhouse, so I turned left and by chance found it in a matter of twenty steps. It was very unnatural somehow in that darkness, and there was nothing either to see or to hear. Then as I was turning away I caught a quick flicker of light, and it was coming from inside.

  It went so quickly that I thought I must have been mistaken. I listened too, and there was never a sound, and then, just as suddenly, there was the flicker again. It was coming through a window, and all those windows, as I had seen in daylight, were boarded up as a kind of permanent black-out and for protection of the glass. Once more the flicker went, and again it returned in that momentary flash. Then I knew what was happening. Someone was in that summerhouse with a torch.

  I pressed my ear against the wall and listened, and there was at once a faint sound like the shuffling of feet. A moment for thought and then I gingerly hoisted a foot on the veranda and clutched a pillar to raise myself up by the most direct route. If a light could come through a window, then my eye could see inside by the same black-out crack. That was what I thought.

  It was a nail that the damp had made project above the flooring of the veranda that ruined that scheme. My toe caught it as I moved fo
rward in the dark and, though I didn’t fall, I went out with a kind of lurch and my arms struck the match-boarding at my left and steadied me. But inside those empty rooms the thud of it must have been very much of a warning. I know my cheeks flushed as I cursed myself for a clumsy fool, and then I was holding my breath and listening. Almost at once there was a sound, and at first I couldn’t locate it. It went, and then there was another sound—the faint squeak of a door on rusty hinges. Then I knew. Whoever it was that had been in that summerhouse, he had now nipped out by the back door and the door to the lane, and it would be hopeless for me to try to follow him.

  I listened again, but there was no sound of steps. Then I tried the handle of the front door and found the door locked. Then I made a very careful way to the back door and found that locked too. And then I had an idea. Maybe it was Goodman who had been in that summerhouse, and for some reason or other he hadn’t wished the fact known. What that reason was, or why he should have considered a nocturnal search desirable, was something I couldn’t arrive at, though doubtless the reasons were something that had occurred to him earlier in the day when he and I and Daine had come through that splintered door from the back lane.

  I tapped at the door of Chaice’s room and the plain-clothes man let me in.

  “Inspector Goodman been along recently?” I asked him.

  He told me the Inspector had left at eight o’clock and as if for the night. I asked if he’d mind calling the station and finding out if he was there. Inside a couple of minutes I had Goodman on the line.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said. “I’ve been here since about half-past eight.”

  “Then it was somebody who was up to no good,” I said. “Might be worth an inspection in the morning, don’t you think?” He said it certainly might.

  One other thing happened that night, or rather in the morning before it was properly light. I was sound asleep when I was awakened by a tapping at my door. I called a “Come in!” and grabbed my glasses with one hand and switched on the bed light with the other. It was Harris.