The Case of the Fighting Soldier: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  “Hallo, Ferris,” I said. “Enjoying the show?”

  “The new stuff’s just coming on,” he said, and took the seat beside me. “Poor house to-night.”

  “That’s because Peakridge is in bounds on a Sunday,” I said, and then off went the lights again, and since the film—a Russian one—had a sound track, we didn’t say a word till it was run off, by which time it was twenty-two hours and closing time. We waited till the exit rush was over. Ferris was bound for the Mess so we strolled across together.

  “What’d you think of the Reverend’s performance this afternoon?” he suddenly asked.

  “Damned if I know,” I said. “In any case Collect’s confidences are for Wharton, not me.”

  “If you ask me,” he said, “he’s trying to grind some axe of his own. He’s got his knife into somebody and he’s out to make capital of something he’s seen. He’s a vindictive old devil.”

  “We’re none of us perfect,” I remarked sententiously. “But, confidentially, how’s that idea of yours coming along? The one I was supposed to give you.”

  That irritating sneer crept into his tone.

  “That’s rather private, just at present. And what about your own theory? The one I was mixed up in.”

  “Very much private,” I said. “Never have a theory, Ferris, unless you can side-step it. Theories, like many other things, should never be allowed to become obsessions.”

  “Meaning that I have obsessions?”

  “Don’t get touchy,” I told him. “Have a drink instead.” Flick was already at the bar and his shoes were reasonably clean. In the morning, I told myself, I would have a good look at that spot where the attack on Collect had supposedly taken place.

  Collect was not at breakfast. There was nothing surprising about that, for breakfast was an irregular sort of meal, but I did have a lucky word with Compress as we came out.

  “He’s got rather a bad throat,” he said, “and I’m keeping him in bed for a bit.” He glanced round and his voice lowered. “I think he’s been experimenting with the old-fashioned remedy of tying a stocking round it and he’s rather overdone it.”

  I was gathering that Collect had found some method of hoodwinking the doctor, but I made no comment, for I was too busy trying to locate the spot where the attack was supposed to have taken place. But the whole of that area, lying as it did in a direct line between living quarters and lecture- and dining-rooms, was a mass of footprints, and as I didn’t want to be seen making a close examination, I did no more in the matter.

  I was busy, too, that morning, for I had to run into Peakridge to make final arrangements about Feeder’s funeral. Then I dropped in at the police station, and at a very lucky moment.

  “We were just trying to get you at the camp,” the station-sergeant told me. “This message just came in.”

  It was from the Yard, but it conveyed very little to me, except that Feeder’s registered parcel had been traced and inquiries were proceeding. So off I went back to the camp again. The Colonel agreed that perhaps we ought to have buglers at the funeral, though he drew the line at a detachment, and I didn’t tell him that I had made my own arrangements about wreaths. Then I went along for a look at Collect, but Nurse Wilton said he was asleep.

  “I haven’t seen much of you lately,” I said, with an attempt at roguishness.

  “Whose fault is that?” she asked me.

  The question was accompanied by a look so provocative that I believe I blushed.

  “I hope it’s mine,” I said gallantly. “All the same, I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”

  “Your wife keeping well?”

  I blushed again, I hardly know why. She gave me a smile and a nod and left me with that parting shot. A most attractive woman, I couldn’t for the life of me help thinking. Then I was wondering just where she came into Wharton’s scheme of things. And that reminded me of something else. I still had no idea who was Wharton’s pet suspect.

  Well, the afternoon was even more melancholy than Mortar’s funeral had been, for a drizzling rain had come on. I had brought the buglers in the car, and when we got back to camp I found a message that Harness wanted me. He had a telephonic communication from Wharton, forwarded from Peakridge, and it was in telegraphic form.

  Hope return afternoon to-morrow Tuesday Stop Announce to-morrow have seen Emerald Stop Am not hopeful.

  Democrat

  “Nothing serious I hope, sir?” Harness said with a look of concern. I stopped frowning. Thanks to Wharton’s ironic pseudonym he had no idea that the message wasn’t private.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Just a little personal matter.”

  But it was not till some minutes later that I had Wharton’s cryptogram unravelled, at least to some sort of satisfaction. In the morning, and presumably not before, I was to let out that he had been in Ireland. What was definitely disheartening was the hint that inquiries there had gone none too well. Or was it that they had gone very well indeed, and George was taking preliminary precautions, and for his own inscrutable reasons, to conceal both evidence and results?

  November had come in almost imperceptibly and one realized with something of a shock how early the nights were now drawing in. The Colonel had mentioned that we ought to make some modification of the time-table, and having an hour to pass, I went to his room after tea. His batman told me he was with Collect, so I thought I’d kill two birds with the one stone.

  Collect was sitting up in his camp bed with a dressing-gown round his shoulders, and he and the Colonel had been having tea in the room. From the quick look that Collect gave me I judged that he was apprehensive of my letting something slip about the attack, but I played my part in the best tradition. He said he was feeling much better. The soreness had gone from the throat and he was hoping to be out and about in the morning. He also asked about Wharton and when he was coming back. I divulged to him and the Colonel that the return would probably be at lunch-time the next day.

  We had a little chat and then the Colonel got up to go.

  “Poor Collect,” he said, as we walked a few yards to his room. “I’m afraid we shall be losing him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him just now, but he has to report to the War Office on Wednesday.”

  “As a result of the report?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” the Colonel said. “Still, I’m hoping they’ll find him something to do.”

  I was a bit restless and excited that night and found sleep hard to come by. As I lay waiting for it to come I was thinking of a good many things: how the school had changed in a brief week or two, with Mortar and Feeder gone, and Collect going. As soon as Wharton arrived I would tell him of the attack on Collect, and maybe I would not add my suspicions but leave George to suggest himself that the attack had been a fake. Then I thought to myself that George would probably come by the early train from town, so I would take the car to Peakridge and meet him, even if it meant being very late for lunch.

  In the dead middle of night I suddenly woke, and it seemed that I had heard stealthy footsteps. At once the gun was out from under my pillow and my finger was on the switch of the bedside lamp. There was another faint sound from somewhere outside and I listened, breath held, and then after some minutes of silence I got quietly out of bed and listened with my ear to the side partitions. There was never a sound from either room. Then I made sure that my door was really locked and got back into bed. Perhaps the excitement of the day had tired me, for when I next woke it was to the sound of my batman knocking at the door.

  I was not aware of it, but the final day had dawned. At breakfast, when all the staff except Collect happened to be present, I mentioned in the general hearing that Wharton was due back at lunch-time or thereabouts. Harness helped me by asking if he’d been in town all the time.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said rather loudly; “his wire to me was from Ireland of all places. What he’s been doing there I don’t know, but there we are.”

  That started the Colon
el off on some fishing experiences in Donegal, so that even if I had wished I could not have looked round to see how Wharton’s erratic peregrinations had affected the high table. After breakfast I was giving my final lecture of the Course, and I was glad of that to pass my time. Then I mooned about generally till the hour had come to meet Wharton.

  They told me at Peakridge that the train was running late on account of fog, and I had to wait on that cold, draughty station for an hour. Then when the local train drew in, Wharton was not on it after all. In the empty dining-room at the camp a waiter told me he had arrived by car soon after I had left, so I made a hurried meal and went in search of him. His bag was back in his room, but no one seemed to know where he was at the moment. Then Maisie Wilton, who was just off to the ranges and whose eyes were better than mine, asked if that wasn’t he standing at the entrance to the magazine, talking to Store.

  I met George on his way back and he pretended to be uncommonly glad to see me. In fact he hailed me like a long-lost brother, and was all apologies for my wasted lunch-hour.

  “You went to Eire?” I asked.

  “Well, yes,” he admitted. “I went by plane.”

  “Good,” I said. “What did you find out?”

  He frowned. “It’s hard to say. You wouldn’t believe me, perhaps, but in one way we aren’t much farther forward.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, there’s nothing definite. There’s nothing solid on which to take action. What I’m going to do is to test things out this evening.”

  “You’re tighter than a clam,” I told him. “What’re you going to test? Somebody or something?”

  “Both,” he said. “If it doesn’t work, then I’ll take action to-morrow, and risk it.”

  We were entering his room and who should be there but two men fitting a telephone extension. George fussed round them for a minute or two and then was handed the receiver to make a final test.

  “Hallo? That you, Store?”

  Apparently it was, and I was wondering what the devil he was doing with a private line to Store’s office, and where Store himself came in. Before I could prise out more of the clam, George was questioning me, and as if he were anxious to try out his new toy.

  “You got this afternoon’s time-table on you?”

  I said I knew it by heart and at once he was asking where Flick was.

  “Off duty,” I said.

  “Ferris?”

  “On the ranges.” I held up a finger. “You can hear the plopping. He and the new man and Brende are all there. And Compress and Nurse Wilton.”

  “Brende there? Damnation!” He clicked his tongue. “Well, I shall have to get him later. Collect hasn’t been well, they tell me.”

  Then at last I was able to get in a few words. He listened with an extraordinary intentness to my story of the attack, and to my surprise made no suggestion of its having been a fake.

  “I knew I was taking a risk,” he said, and then glared at me. “See what I was talking about when I warned you to keep your eyes open? I told you it wasn’t a laughing matter.”

  “What’s this telephone for?” I asked bluntly.

  “So that no one can listen in,” he told me impatiently.

  There was a tap at the door and in came the camp Quartermaster, carrying a huge thin something covered with brown paper.

  “There you are,” said Wharton delightedly. “All ready to get it fixed?”

  It turned out to be a sheet of stout tin, painted black, and I saw at once that it was intended to make a safer black-out than had been afforded by the dark curtain. The Quartermaster bored holes at each corner of the window and one in the centre of the mullion.

  “I’ll leave you the screws and the screw-driver, sir,” he told Wharton, “and then you can fix it for yourself.”

  “What about the corner?”

  That was in order too, he was told, and I could see that Wharton had been referring to a corner that had been cut away from the tin, leaving a little triangle. I imagined at the time that there was some obstacle in the corner of the window round which it was designed to fit, but I couldn’t see any too well.

  George hid the tin and the screws behind the cupboard. Then he was putting on his greatcoat.

  “What’s the time?”

  “A quarter past four,” I said.

  “Well, I’m going to be busy,” he said, “and I’m late now. You listen and mind you don’t slip up. Got a gun?”

  I nodded.

  “Keep it in your pocket, and load it. If you move in the dark and anybody tries any monkey tricks, stop him dead. Have tea in the dining-room and then go to your own room and stay there. See the black-out’s perfect if you want the lights on, but it’d be better to sit in the dark. Don’t open the door to anybody. You got that? Not to anybody—except me. I’ll tap out that Victory sign with my knuckles. When you let me in, see no light is on, and don’t say a word.”

  “At what time will it be?”

  “Perhaps not at all. Perhaps soon after dusk.”

  I did what George told me and soon after seventeen hours I was in my room with the door locked. For once in my life I found nothing ridiculous in a situation that had more than a melodramatic touch. George’s injunctions had been too curt and his face too grim for me to doubt the seriousness of things. I took his advice and had no lights on, though I did switch on the electric fire when I had made sure the black-out was perfect, for the room was icily cold. I also took good care to make no noise.

  As the dusk merged into dark the suspense was becoming intolerable. My heart began to beat at an alarming rate. Then my restlessness grew beyond control, and on a sudden impulse I switched off the fire and tiptoed to the door and opened it to the merest slit. Towards the hospital was nothing but blackness, and I was telling myself that George’s tin contraption was highly effective. In the same moment I saw a flash of light away in the distance by his room, and I knew someone was moving about with a torch.

  The light flickered and came my way. I closed the door, quietly locked it again, and listened with my ear to the panel. The steps neared, passed my door and went on, but all the sounds were so faint that I could not tell if they had stopped or had moved to beyond earshot. What I did know was that my heart was racing like a mad thing and that my forehead was wet.

  A quarter of an hour went by and then, with a noise that seemed a thunderclap, there was a rat-tat-tat-tat on the door. In a flash I had it open and George was nipping inside. As he did so I noticed something in the distance—a pin-point of light.

  “Something wrong with your black-out,” I whispered.

  He hissed me to silence, then was motioning for me to get behind him. The pencil torch which he ran down the door showed me that in his other hand was a gun. Then I heard him gently opening the door. It opened outwards, and I could see over his bent shoulders, for he was leaning forward at the ready, like a man with his bayonet at the On Guard.

  But what I could actually see was nothing at all, except that pin-point of light, and that was as big in the darkness as a sea beacon. Everywhere was an incredible quiet, and I remembered that the Home Guard were all in the lecture-room, listening to Compress’s talk on first-aid.

  We must have stood there for a good ten minutes, and the sound of my heart was like the thumping of a drum. Then George’s hand went back and clutched mine as if to keep me back. Something was happening, but what it was I could neither see nor hear. Then a queer difference became apparent, and in the same second even the difference had gone, and I knew what had happened out there in the dark. Someone had passed in front of that pin-point of light and had obscured it, and had then passed on. Yet, I thought, it had not been as quick as that. It was rather as if someone had stopped in front of the window for a second or two before moving on. Maybe someone had seen the light and had gone to investigate, and was now’ tapping at George’s door to tell him the black-out was defective. Or perhaps—

  There was a shattering roar! So sudden was i
t that I fell back, and so loud in the silence that it was as if silence itself was shattered. In the same infinitesimal fraction of a second there was a blinding flash. Before I knew it, Wharton was out of the door and his shout came from outside in the blackness of the night.

  “Brende! . . . Brende! . . . Get him! GET HIM!!”

  Torches were flashing everywhere, but for the life of me I could never have moved. So it was Brende after all! That’s all I could think, and then suddenly my legs came to life again, and I was trying to run to the light where the torches all seemed congregated.

  Chapter XVII

  “Is he hurt?” I heard Wharton saying. I could still see nothing in spite of that circle of torchlights.

  “His leg’s badly cut, sir, but I got him with this all right.”

  It was Brende’s voice!

  “When you hollered, sir, I saw him dart my way and I just let out. I reckon you heard the crack.”

  “Tie him up and take no chances,” Wharton said, and the light of the torches moved to a something black on the ground. I could not see a face, and then Wharton stopped and was wrenching off what I knew to be a mask. Then I saw the face. It was Ferris’s.

  “Get him to the police van,” Wharton was snapping. “Say I’ll be along in half a jiff. Brende, you double back to the lecture-room and say what I told you. Just a bit of routine explosion ready for to-night’s stunt. You come with me, Store, and see if there’s any mess to clear up in my room.”

  I followed at their heels. George switched on the light as he went in, and I could see holes in the curtain and more in the ceiling. Some of the plaster was on the ground, but a more curious thing was something like a guy on a chair with its back to the window.

  “Get everything cleared up,” George was telling Store. “And fill up that hole outside before they get out of the lecture-room.”

  Then he seemed to see me for the first time.