The Case of the Kidnapped Colonel: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  Wharton peered at him over his spectacle tops, then fingered the papers that now lay spread on the table. He found one and handed it to Passenden.

  “Anticipating such a move, I’ve prepared a list. You can either talk about them here in private, or we’ll both talk about them very much in public.”

  “Here comes the iron fist out of the velvet glove,” I thought, “or else Wharton is trying a bluff.” But my eyes were on Passenden. He read what was on that sheet of paper, and without moving a muscle. Then he handed the paper courteously back.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s all Greek to me.”

  “You prefer the alternative?”

  “That’s up to you,” Passenden told him, and his eyes were steadily on Wharton’s. “One thing I will say. No man ever made me talk when I didn’t want to. What you care to say doesn’t interest me.”

  Wharton let out a breath and gave a mournful shake of the head. Then he was looking at Newton, and never had I seen a man look more uncomfortable than the Professor.

  “Perhaps you’ll start then, Professor Newton.”

  “I?” stammered Newton. He gave a sort of titter. “I’m afraid I’m the same. I don’t see what there is for me to talk about.”

  “Ah, well,” said Wharton resignedly. “Here’s your little paper. Just read it and make sure I know all about things.”

  Newton’s look was a quick one, and he was still shaking his head as he handed the paper back.

  “You know, like Major Passenden, that this may considerably hamper your future career?” Wharton asked him.

  Newton shook his head again, but the hand that produced the cigarette-case was rather shaky. Wharton’s tone changed. It was brisker and just a bit hard, but I knew it to be nothing compared with what might come in a minute.

  “I see. Neither wants to talk. Well, there’re more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream. I propose to tell you one or two.” The tone hardened and there was a perceptible sneer. “By the time I’ve finished, gentlemen, you’ll both wish—”

  There were quick steps in the corridor, and a tap at the door. Wharton said, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” and went to the door himself. I just caught Ledd’s excited voice, and then the door closed behind Wharton. In less than a minute he was looking in again.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen, please. I’ll be back in a moment or two.”

  Well, there we sat, nobody saying a word. Passenden was sitting arms on knees, and interested in nothing so much as his pipe. I looked at Newton, half caught his eye, and then he was being solicitous for the ash of his cigarette. I gently cleared my throat.

  “I’d like you to know, Passenden, I said that this meeting is very much of a surprise to me.”

  I hoped he’d take it as a hint that I’d kept my word. He apparently did, for he smiled.

  “My dear fellow, you needn’t tell me that.”

  Then we were all cocking an ear, for steps were heard approaching in the corridor. They were Wharton’s, and he looked grave enough as he closed the door. But he took his time about things.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said at last. “I find I shan’t need the thumbscrews after all. You can both talk. Colonel Brende is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  It was I who spoke.

  “Dead,” echoed Wharton. “And by his own hand. Five minutes ago he shot himself.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Show-Down

  PASSENDEN’S first words were really directed at me, even if the eyes were on Wharton.

  “I suppose I was responsible for all this, even if it wasn’t my fault entirely. It arose out of that discovery I made. It was when the Huns were just breaking through and my A. A. guns were red hot. I’d been soldiering for twenty-five years and it had come to me out of the blue, just at a time like that. A pretty good idea it was, though I say it. I was so full of it, I went and told Brende, even if it was just a bit above his head.

  “I did keep a bit back, I don’t know why. Perhaps because I felt different about him, though I never had trusted him entirely. You see, I knew he was having an affair with the Craye woman. Oh, yes, I knew her long before I came down here. And I knew that Mrs. Brende was being kept very much in the dark. But about that scheme of mine. I told Brende to his face that there was one little bit I was keeping back. I’m rather sorry about that now.

  “This is why. The Bosche broke through and we thought we were cut off. I don’t want to go into details but he and I were the last to leave our little headquarters. We were burning documents and things, and all at once he said to me that neither of us knew if we’d ever get out alive, so oughtn’t I to tell him the rest of my idea. I agreed, and I did tell him, and I gave him my rough notes, and his eyes popped out of his head. A few minutes later a man came running in to say that Hun tanks were coming over the ridge. Brende told him to hop it on the pedal-bicycle and leave the motor-bike for us two. I can see him now, looking out of where there was once a window and I can see the man pedalling away like hell’s hammers. Then he drew my attention to something, and the next thing I knew was that I’d been shot.”

  “He shot you?” asked Wharton.

  “Oh, yes. He shot me all right. And he damn near made a good job of it. I just seem to remember him standing over me, as if he was finding out if he’d done the job well and truly. I even think I can hear the sound of a motor-bike which was him getting away, then I passed out and the Huns must have taken me for dead. But I wasn’t, and the rest you probably know. I ultimately got to England and I made enquiries at the War House. Brende had got them enthusiastic about my idea and Dalebrink Hall was working at it with Brende in nominal command. I also discovered that Penelope Craye was installed as his secretary. Those are a few of the reasons why I wanted a quiet word or two with Brende.”

  “And why he didn’t want them with you.”

  “Exactly. But what I couldn’t understand was how Brende, who, frankly, never had the brains for that sort of thing was able to act as head of research. Either he must have modified the idea, or simplified it, or picked somebody else’s brains. At any rate, it puzzled me. What didn’t puzzle me in the least was when Major Travers rang the Hall and that woman swore he wasn’t there. They must have known I would soon be in England —there was a paragraph in the papers—but they hadn’t expected me so soon. Now you know why I took a stroll round that way that very first night, when I was unlucky enough to get caught by the police. But I was lucky in another way, because it was that that brought me to Major Travers’ office where you told me about the kidnapping. I smelt a rat at once. I knew that kidnapping was a fake.

  “The next thing I did was to get in touch with Mrs. Brende. I was glad she had got wise to Penelope Craye, and finally we talked freely, and we had to agree that the kidnapping was a put-up job. Her view was that he mustn’t be allowed to bring more scandal on the name and that between us we must straighten things out as best we could. I guessed he’d gone to somewhere near Sowdale, and I hoped I’d be able to find him. I did find him, and in the cave which we’d both known as boys. He was having a good time, but I had a gun and I scared the life out of him. If he hadn’t told me everything—or nearly so— and agreed to do what I told him, I’d most certainly have shot him and buried him where he’d never have been found. What I told him to do was to fake loss of memory, let himself be found, then resign his appointment and leave the service, and then to disappear for good. That was the only way to save scandal, and his neck.”

  “Why his neck?” I asked.

  Passenden looked at Wharton.

  “Tell him how he killed Penelope Craye,” Wharton said.

  “Well, that’s rather involved,” Passenden said, “and I’ll tell you why. I got the idea that one of the reasons why Brende disappeared was to give himself an alibi for the murder of his wife. I honestly think his original idea was to get rid of her, come into her money, and then marry the Craye woman. I got Mrs. Brende of the same opinion, and I induced her to
take special precautions. But Brende knew that Penelope knew too much. She was the one he decided to get rid of. Mind you, I even believe the Craye woman had an idea that he was going to kill his wife. That woman was capable of anything, even murder. Still, as I said, Brende made up his mind to kill her first, and he did. He didn’t kill her at her flat because that wouldn’t have given him quite so good an alibi. When she was dead, I think he would have killed his wife next, or else he’d have tried wheedling her into some sort of reconciliation or money settlement.”

  “Just a minute,” I said. “You’re travelling too fast for me. How was that fake kidnapping done? How could he get through my cordon?”

  “He didn’t,” Wharton said. “You told me about coal being put into a cellar. I discovered that that coal had been ordered on the morning of Penelope Craye’s death and Mrs. Brende, who ordered it, insisted on immediate delivery. That coal concealed a door. But you go on, Major.”

  “It concealed a door to a passage that led to the summer-house,” Passenden said. “It played a great part in the wicked days when there were high old goings on at the pool. Then it was more or less of a family secret. I knew about it, though Brende didn’t know that. Mrs. Brende and I guessed he’d gone in and out that way, right underneath your cordon, Travers. As for the actual night, my arrival hurried things a bit. They’d planned it for a night or two later, perhaps, because there were other reasons for the disappearance besides my arrival. After all, he could have given me the lie direct and his word was almost as good as mine.”

  “What other reasons?” I asked.

  “Well, about killing his wife. Also I think Professor Newton may have a few things to say about some other reasons.”

  “And how was the faking done?”

  “The Craye woman hired a car,” he said. “I can tell you where. While Brende was doing the faking of the room, for which everything was ready beforehand, and announcing to all and sundry that he’d made a colossal discovery, she fetched the car and had it outside the side gate after dark. She also used the passage, of course. She drove Brende to Cumberforth and brought the car back to where it was hired from, and then walked back into the house through the summer-house passage again.”

  “And she had a look round to see everything was set,” Wharton cut in. “She’d discovered he’d left the note-book behind, so she thought she’d better burn it. And both of them had been so hurried that they made slips. Breaking open drawers, for instance, when a real abductor would have helped himself to the drugged man’s keys.”

  “Just before midnight, was it, when Brende got away?” I asked.

  “That was about the time,” Passenden told me.

  “Good,” I said. “I know at last who gave me that crack on the skull. I was sitting on the summer-house seat when Brende wanted to make his exit. He probably hit me with a croquet mallet. But about killing Penelope Craye. He didn’t own up to that, did he?”

  “He certainly didn’t,” Passenden said. “That’s one thing he strenuously denied.”

  Suddenly he was getting to his feet and whipping open the door. He smiled rather sheepishly as he came back.

  “I’d rather not have this known, except to ourselves, and I’d be glad if you’d forget it. We had another angle on that murder. Mrs. Brende, as cool as they make ‘em, wasn’t going to let herself be done in without taking precautions. Also you may not know it, but she’s something of a detective-novel fan. She didn’t tell me till later, but she had the idea of sprinkling something at night both in the cellar and outside Penelope’s door, and she’d be up at crack of dawn to see results. Even before Penelope’s body was discovered that morning she knew a man had entered the house, and the room. That, with what I could tell, would have been enough to hang Brende.” He looked down at his cold pipe and shook his head. “And that, I think, is about all I know.”

  “Just one thing more,” I said. “Why did Mrs. Brende have Penelope to tea the day before she died?”

  Passenden smiled. “Just some idea about picking her brains. Cat and mouse business, and so on.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly cleared a good few things up,” said Wharton, and was peering amiably at Newton over his spectacles. “And now what about you, Professor? What’s your angle on things?”

  “Well,” said Newton, stammering as usual, “most of what Major Passenden has said is news to me, but it does confirm a lot of other things which used to puzzle me. Of course I didn’t really know there was any illicit affair between Colonel Brende and his secretary. I did have suspicions at times, but really their manner was usually most proper.”

  “Exactly,” said Wharton. “But how did you get into all this originally?”

  “It was queer from the start,” Newton said, gathering more speed and confidence. “I should have met Colonel Brende at the Ministry and we were going into things with Hush.” He didn’t call him that, though I still prefer to leave him anonymous. “Then a sudden message came that Colonel Brende was unwell, and a typescript came instead. I saw the idea was excellent, the most promising I’d had in fact, but it had some gaps. I didn’t tell Hush so, but agreed that there was every chance of ultimately putting the idea into working, and effective working. Later I was told to come down here, and in the interim I’d supposed that Colonel Brende was still unwell. But I found him down here, and he was nominally in charge of research.

  “But that wasn’t the only surprising thing, gentlemen. When I had to approach him about details of his idea, he would put me off. He’d say I knew more than he did, or if I puzzled it out I’d hit on some improvement, or that he hadn’t worked out that particular detail himself. Then there was that business of his working at another great idea by himself, upstairs here. Frankly I was puzzled. Believe me or not, I arrived at the only possible conclusion—that he had presented us with a scheme which wasn’t his own at all. Either that or he’d got the glimmering of a notion and hadn’t the faintest idea how to work on it further.

  “Then Gunner”—and again he didn’t call him that—“was coming down, and I was seriously alarmed. I didn’t see how Colonel Brende could possibly get himself out of an awkward fix, but he did. I’m afraid the General wasn’t much better informed. At any rate, Colonel Brende satisfied him well enough.”

  “With the note-book?” asked Wharton.

  Newton shot a look at him.

  “Well, yes, with the note-book.”

  “You arrived at the conclusion that there was a lot of humbug about that note-book,” Wharton prompted helpfully.

  “Yes, but not at first. As a matter of fact I hardly like to tell you this. It doesn’t redound much to my credit.”

  Wharton gave a chuckle. “We’re all rogues and vagabonds if the truth were only known.”

  Newton smiled. “I don’t think it’s quite as bad as that. What did happen was that I went to Miss Craye’s sitting-room at her invitation and she didn’t happen to be there. I was going to have tea with her, as a matter of fact. That note-book was there, and I wondered what on earth Brende was thinking of to be so careless. Then—well, my curiosity got the better of me and I had a look at it. Shortly afterwards Miss Craye came flying in, full of apologies, and when she saw the note-book, she was very much perturbed. The Colonel had been in on business just before, she said, and must have left it there, so she took it back at once.”

  “And what did you see in it?”

  Newton smiled down his nose, and was shaking his head as if at some reminiscence.

  “Perhaps I might explain this way. In my early days as an examiner for various Boards I had to mark many thousands of examination papers. One day I came across a very long-winded answer that quite perplexed me for a moment or two. I thought for a second that I’d come up against some mathematical genius whose brain was functioning in spheres far outside my experience, and then almost as quickly I tumbled to what had been done. Later on I contrived to interview this candidate.1 He owned up quite unblushingly. I should say he was quite a clever fellow a
t many things, but mathematics, after a certain point, were merely a blank as far as he was concerned—a very common occurrence, I assure you. What he’d done was to try to hot-stuff me, as he called it, by filling a page with the most ingenious series of formulæ and gibberish. I assured him he’d probably land up in gaol if he carried that kind of dexterity into ordinary life. He was most cheerful about it all. I remember he said he’d hoped I’d allow him some marks for his ingenuity.”

  I had to laugh at that story. As a matter of fact I had an idea I knew the very bloke who had tried that bluff.

  “The note-book was something of the kind,” Newton was going on. “A great deal of genuine stuff of no particular value, but very much more of the kind I’ve described. I couldn’t help but conclude that it had been compiled for the benefit of Gunner. Mind you, I’m casting no aspersions on him. That book wouldn’t have deceived the very elect, but it would certainly have convinced the half-informed.”

  “And the photostats?” Wharton asked.

  “Well, naturally they were three brief extracts from what I’ve been trying to describe. One series of formulæ had been lifted straight out of a fairly well-known book on the Calculus.”

  “I don’t know when I’ve listened to a clearer exposition,” Wharton told us. “And you see what follows, gentlemen. Hush was due down, and all that eyewash and humbug wouldn’t get by him. Brende had to do something about it. That’s why he had planned to get out in any case even before you turned up, Major Passenden. But you must have been in a very queer position here, Professor?”

  “A most painful position,” Newton said. “When he came down that Saturday evening with his note-book and began talking of a big discovery, I hardly knew which way to look. And all the time before that, I was most uncomfortable. I knew the man was a charlatan, but what could I do? I couldn’t rat on him. I didn’t want to throw up the work here, which is definitely achieving results. Then when he disappeared—well, I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what to say or do, so I determined not to think about things at all, but to get on with my job. When I told you, Superintendent, that we should manage to get along without him, I really thought I’d given the whole thing away.”