The Case of the Kidnapped Colonel: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  After lunch I settled down to a study of the confidential and secret files, which as far as they concerned Camp 55, were all new to me and I was particularly interested in the instructions for the absolute security of Dalebrink Park. There was also a memorandum from Command through district H.Q., making virtually the actual disposition of guards which we were maintaining.

  “That lets us out,” I told myself. “If anything does go wrong at any time then we pass the buck to district H.Q., and what they do with it is their business.”

  The buzzer went. Harrison was asking if I wanted to see a Mr. Jenkins who was claiming that I would like to see him.

  “Jenkins?” I said. “I don’t remember anybody of that name. What’s his business?”

  “He won’t tell me. He merely gave me his card and said you’d see him.”

  “Be a good fellow and send me the card in,” I said.

  In it came by an orderly, and this is what it looked like.

  MR. G. JENKINS

  HIGH CLASS SECOND-HAND AND OTHER CARS

  33 COPSE LANE,

  Tel.: Dale 721.

  As soon as I read it I thought I could explain Jenkins. I have a car which has been laid up since the outbreak of war, and though now a few years old, it is good enough class. Cars I knew were well up in price, and doubtless Mr. Jenkins had got wind of mine and wanted to do a deal.

  “Perhaps I’d better run my eye over him,” I called to Harrison, and then made a quick calculation of what my Rolls should fetch. Feet were heard on the duckboards, and voices at the door. There was a tap and the door opened. Who should walk in but George Wharton!

  “Good God!” I ejaculated blasphemously, and then my face was wreathed in smiles. George’s smile was more sheepish than anything as he held out his hand.

  “Well, how are we?”

  “Fit and fine,” I said. “But how in heaven’s name did you know I was here?”

  The last thing I intended was to let him know I was aware that he had wangled my appointment. George wallows in stratagems, and nothing pleases him better than to have something up his sleeve, and, if he wanted to have his little secret, well, who was I to be a spoil-sport?

  “Oh, we have ways and means,” he said airily as he began taking off his heavy overcoat. I rang hastily through to Harrison and said I was on no account to be disturbed. By that time George had drawn up a chair to the electric stove and was stoking his pipe. I had to smile as I looked at him. There he was complete—moustache vast as ever, top of the spectacle-case protruding from the breast-pocket, and the creases on his forehead all a-quiver as he thought out some new subterfuge.

  “What’s this Jenkins business?” I said.

  He chuckled. “Pretty good, eh?”

  “Good?” I said scathingly. “‘You may drive a car but you know as much about its insides as I do of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s.”

  “I don’t know.” he said mournfully. “I’ve picked up a good few tips since I saw you last. Some would surprise you.”

  “I expect they would,” I said. “All the same I’d love to hear you going over the points of a car with a customer.”

  He chuckled again. “I haven’t got as far as that vet. Some might say it was all eyewash.”

  He looked round with an exaggerated caution, then he nodded, mysteriously. Next he shifted the chair still closer and his voice took on an asthmatic quality which was doubtless meant to be.

  “I’ve been in the Garden City here for the last month!”

  My eyebrows raised. “Negger hunting?”

  That rather punctured the balloon.

  “So you know all about that.” he said regretfully. “Still, I don’t know that you’re right. All sorts of things had to be looked into, so it was arranged I should stay as her nephew with the mother of one of our inspectors. My business in town is supposed to be bombed out. The car idea allows me to get round the countryside a good deal.”

  “Found anything out?”

  He leaned forward again.

  “Picked up a couple who were wanted. Got ’em safely where they’ll do no harm tor a bit.”

  “Really? That’s good work. George. Neggers, were they?”

  He gave a look of pain, and when he spoke again, his voice —thank heaven—was free of asthma.

  “Neggers!” The tone was one of unspeakable disgust. “You’ve got Neggers on the brain. What’s wrong with the so-called Neggers?”

  “Good Lord, you’re not serious!”

  “And why shouldn’t I be?” he asked virtuously. “Look at it the right way,” he said, and poked the stem of the pipe at me. “What are we supposed to be fighting for? Liberty and freedom. Freedom of what? Freedom of speech, and a free Press. Fighting to keep it for ourselves and to get it back for those Hitler’s taken it from. A fine collection of hypocrites we’d be if we said all that and then went and denied freedom to our own people? Am I right or wrong?”

  I stared, then smiled rather wryly.

  “George,” I said in sorrow, “you’ve been nobbled!”

  He chuckled, and out went his hand to give an avuncular pat to my knee. To George I’m still the fledgling on whom he first clapped eyes fifteen years ago.

  “My boy, you’ve got a lot to learn. You’ve got to trust the old stager for one thing. I’ve never led you far wrong yet, have I?”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said. “But if you’ve called to see me on pleasure, let’s adjourn to the Mess for a refresher, and I’ll see about an hour or two off. If it’s business—well, what about it?”

  “No tea for me,” he said, and shook his head. “I’m here strictly on business. You’ve got a car, haven’t you? Well, I’m angling to buy that hell-wagon of yours. You tell anyone concerned that you’re holding out for a certain price. That’ll explain any future visits. And you’ve got my telephone number there.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now, as the talkies have it, we’re going places. What’s the business?”

  “You’re responsible for guards at Dalebrink Hall?”

  “Yes,” I said, somewhat taken aback. “Why do you ask?” He told me, and what he told me explained a lot and left a lot unexplained. Most of it sounded genuine, but there was a streak of the bogus. Also, when one is dealing with George, it is hard to be sure whether he isn’t being bogus himself for his own mysterious ends. Still, this is what he told me, from his own words and his own point of view.

  He had originally been sent to Dalebrink after a Nazi agent— an Alsatian Frenchman, who, after an inquiry into his credentials and a brief period of observation, had been running loose ever since Dunkirk, when he landed with a boatload of refugees. He had been tracked to the Garden City where lived one of the people who had vouched for him, and Wharton had been able to collar both the agent and the guarantor. He was now on the point of roping in a Communist agent suspected of being in German pay, who also was at the City, though working at the larger of the two factories.

  “About a week ago I thought my job here was as good as over,” he said, “and then—”

  “The town doesn’t think the job’s over,” I said dryly.

  Wharton gave a prodigious snort. “I know. They’re clamouring for someone to arrest Benison and old Dove. And the so-called Neggers. And what are they—these Neggers? Cranks and intellectuals—God help us!—who think they can blackmail the country now it’s up to the neck in trouble, to let them get on with all the cock-eyed theories they’ve been spouting about for years. Blether! I know. I’ve listened to it.”

  He gave another of those elephantine snorts of his, ran his huge handkerchief across his moustache, and went on with his story.

  A few days before he had received instructions to contact a certain lady. She turned out to be a regular stunner, and the private secretary of the Colonel Brende who was working at Dalebrink Hall. Absolute class from top to toe, Wharton said she was, and an example of what a society lady can do when the old country wants help. Highly efficient too. One of her jobs was to open
all correspondence except that marked Private or Secret. In the course of her duties she opened a letter with the Dalebrink postmark.

  “Here it is,” Wharton said. “Everything about it quite normal, except the writing, and our experts say it was printed by alternate hands for alternate letters. What do you make of it?”

  This was the letter.

  DEAR COLONEL BRENDE,

  I beg of you to take this letter seriously. A dangerous scheme is on foot against the great work you are doing, and even against yourself. Those in it are high up and quite unprincipled. See that the Hall is better protected, and keep an eye on all who come in and out, even those you think you trust. I beg of you not to disregard this.

  A FRIEND.

  The only comment I could make was to raise my eyebrows, but I did ask what Colonel Brende had thought of it.

  “He’s never seen it,” Wharton said as he replaced it in his wallet. “I told you this lady had sense. Well, she got in touch with the Bigwigs—she’s one of ’em herself—and had instructions to get in touch with me.” He had been adjusting his old-fashioned spectacles, and now he peered at me over their tops. “And if you want to know why she didn’t let Colonel Brende see the letter, this is why. The Colonel’s up to the ears in worry and responsibility, and the last thing she wanted to do was give him something more to worry about. And she was right.”

  “What do you think about the letter yourself?”

  “You mean, do I think there’s any truth in it?”

  “In so many words—yes.”

  “Then I do believe in it. Why shouldn’t I? Germany’s just as anxious as we are about night bombing, and they’re working like hell to stop our planes. You bet your life that’s the first thing on their espionage agenda, and they’d stick at nothing to get an inkling of what we’re up to. They know there’s something big going on at Dalebrink Hall. Of course they do. What they’d give their ears to find out, is just what it is.”

  “Yes, there’s quite a lot in that,” I said. “And was that the only letter?”

  “Oh no,” he said. “There were two more, and both are now with the experts. The second one said the writer had still more information, and asked if the Colonel had taken the first letter’s advice. Yesterday morning another one came, and the writer said it was probably the final warning. I met this Miss Craye by arrangement yesterday afternoon, and I sent off the letter the same night. The postmark was London, and it said that Colonel Brende knew the writer and had last seen him in France. Does that make you think?”

  “Not unless it’s another of your French Nazi agents writing it,” I said. “If so he’s either ratting on his pals or employers, or he’s under some debt of gratitude to the Colonel. In the latter case the Colonel might be asked. He’s got to be told about the letters some time.”

  Wharton shook his head. “My instructions are that he’s to be told nothing. This Miss Craye and I are going to handle things. And you.”

  I stared.

  “Yes, you. You’ve got to go into the question of those guards and tighten everything up.”

  “Just a minute,” I said. “I take orders only from the War Office.”

  He chuckled. “That’s what you think. Before this day’s out you’ll be told to do what I’ve said.”

  “Good enough,” I said. “But if I’m going into the question of guards, I’ve got to spill some of the beans to my adjutant. I’ll vouch for him and let him know you’re a Government agent. Anybody else can be told that yarn about my car.” That brought something else to my mind. “By the way, isn’t it dangerous your meeting Penelope Craye?”

  It was good to see George’s eyes bulge.

  “You know her?”

  “Good Lord, yes!” I said airily. “Bernice and I have known her for years.”

  “It’s a small world,” was all George could say as he began scrambling back to his perch. “But I’m supposed to be buying her car. She brought it along by arrangement the other day and I had an inspection bang in the middle of the road. I think I made an impression.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” I said, and then George was getting to his feet.

  “Well, I’ll be pushing along. You have my number, and if you do ring up, say you’re not changing your mind about the car, but I can have another look at it if I come to such-and-such a place. If anything happens at my end I’ll ring you in the same way.”

  And that was that. No sooner had he gone than a despatch-rider came in with a confidential chit straight from Command. Not only was it smothered with red seals on both envelopes, but the actual letter was headed—Immediate and Urgent. I signed the receipt and called in Harrison. The result of our labours was that a letter was sent by us to Command, saying that in view of their previous instructions of so-and-so date, stated to be absolutely comprehensive for the guarding of Dalebrink Hall, we could make no possible further tightening except to double all existing guards by night. If sufficient troops were not available, we should call in the help of the local Home Guard unless otherwise instructed. Would Command please acknowledge and confirm.

  “That lets us out,” Harrison said. “And when had we better start?”

  “Well try and get a medal each,” I said. “We’ll have Company Commanders in as soon as we’ve had a spot of tea, and we’ll get Cross. To-morrow we’ll have the new scheme working.”

  It was late that evening when the whole thing had been worked out and settled, and I was pretty tired mentally when I got into my camp-bed. Then just as I was dozing off, I heard the faint drone of a plane.

  “Damn the planes,” I said, and got my head further under the blanket. But round and round that cursed plane went, like an elusive mosquito, and it must have been another half-hour before I dozed off.

  Then there was a tremendous bump that rattled the windows of my sleeping quarters. I knew what that was, half asleep though I was, so I felt for my glasses, and slid out of bed. In a moment or two my bare feet were in the rubber boots and I in a British warm. Just as I opened the door there were a couple of terrific thuds, and they were damnably close. Then there was the light of a flare, and more heavy crumps.

  Something appeared in the shadow where I stood. It was Harrison.

  “That you, sir? The real thing this time. And Dalebrink Park by the look of it.”

  We had our dispositions in case of bombing, and we made our way at once to our posts. I was at the main telephone while Harrison saw the various squads at the ready, and then I stepped outside to watch. Since I’m no hero I also stepped elsewhere pretty often, for bombs fairly plastered down for best part of an hour. One fell within a hundred yards of one of our huts, and another spattered our covered trenches with earth. Then things quietened down, and before one could hardly realize it everything was as quiet as the grave.

  Wires run from us to every one of our posts, so that in the event of parachute attack, troops can be rushed to a point. We got hold of the Park—by which name our Dalebrink Hall posts were known—and in half an hour we knew most of what had happened. The old coach-house had received a direct hit and the Hall no vital damage. Most of the bombs had fallen in the park itself, but a gardener’s cottage had been demolished and there were casualties. One of our men had been blown off his feet and was suffering from shock.

  In the morning, when the damage could be inspected, it was plain that we had all been lucky. Two houses bad been demolished on the fringes of the City and there were casualties, but those were the only important additions to the night report. I didn’t actually see anybody at the Hall, though I had rung Mrs. Brende and, after the usual delays, heard from her that she was all right, but I saw for myself that the structure of the Hall was undamaged, though many back windows were broken and slates dislodged.

  That afternoon Dalebrink had another sensation. It was a Friday, the day when the Dalebrink Clarion went to Press, and when it appeared that afternoon, it had a letter from Benison. I should say that the editor of the paper was quite impartial. Though he was doub
tless as true blue as any of us, he printed anything that wasn’t libellous and which kept up the circulation of a paper which the rationing had much cut down in size.

  Benison must have gone straight to the office of the Clarion that morning and written the letter in the white heat of rage. And I must say that the case he put up was one that took some refuting. Twelve people had been killed, he said, and some forty injured, and but for the practice flying that had been announced, most would have been in their shelters, and still alive and uninjured. The authorities responsible had murdered those twelve souls as surely as if they had cut their throats. Protestations had been made and local opinion and judgment ignored. Now murder had been done. From then onward let Dalebrink take the handling of its own affairs into its own hands.

  That was the gist of the letter, and it was a minute or two after I had read it that I found counter arguments: that one can’t have omelettes, for instance, without breaking eggs. But I had no time that day to spend on Benison, what with the new guard scheme to put into operation, and Friday pay-day and all the rest of it. What I did not know, or suspect, in spite of Wharton’s revelations, was that zero hour was getting mighty close, and things were really going to happen. To tell the truth, I took those revelations of Wharton’s with a very big pinch of salt. If he could swallow Penelope, hook, line and sinker, then he could swallow anything, and when it comes to patriotism, then any man can be incredulous. In fact I thought there was just a touch of the penny dreadful about the whole thing. And there I lost, not for the first time, my sense of proportion. After all, there was quite a lot of good digestible steak mixed up in the old penny dreadful with the highly coloured gravy.