The Case of the Platinum Blonde: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” I told her. “But where did she go this morning?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I looked into her room to see if she wanted anything—she hasn’t been downstairs at all since yesterday afternoon—and she was gone. Then just before lunch she came into the kitchen when I was there. She seemed so changed I shouldn’t have known her.”

  “And now?”

  “When I came away she was playing with Clarice as if she hadn’t a care in the world.”

  “Well, keep smiling,” I said. “This time to-morrow we’ll know far more about things. And the Major; he isn’t at home?”

  “He always has lunch out,” she said. “Nowadays he rarely gets home till just before seven. This morning he went out on his bicycle somewhere.”

  “If I had Government petrol you wouldn’t see me on a bicycle,” I said.

  “Oh, but he’s frightfully conscientious.”

  I thought it best to turn back then, but just as we were saving good-bye, I thought of something.

  “Strictly between ourselves, and going back to that holiday of Mrs. Chevalle’s, did she ever give you any explanation of why she came back a day early?”

  “A day early!”

  “Yes,” I said. “She should have come back the next day. I was with Major Chevalle and he seemed very surprised and annoyed.”

  “Then he must have misunderstood me,” she said, “or else I must have told him wrongly.” She smiled. “I can prove that I expected her back.”

  “How?”

  “Did I look surprised?”

  “Come to think of it, you didn’t,” I said.

  “Was there enough food ready for all of us?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and a noble meal it was. And there we are. Major Chevalle must have misunderstood. I’m dead sure he was not only surprised but highly annoyed into the bargain. He didn’t say anything to you afterwards?”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” she said. “We never talk about Thora. I can’t think when we last mentioned her. Once he used to step in if she was particularly beastly—to me, I mean—but that always led to dreadful scenes.”

  I clicked my tongue.

  “It’s nothing really,” she told me, and smiled. Then she was holding out her hand again.

  “See you on Sunday,” I said, and at once she was frowning.

  “Don’t you think that rather depends?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d forgotten about certain things. Still, keep that chin of yours up and we’ll be having tea on Sunday after all.”

  But as I turned back I didn’t believe that for a moment. It certainly did all depend, and on far too many things. But the most important thing of all was one that never occurred to me.

  I was rather restless after tea, for every minute brought zero hour a bit nearer, and there was the likelihood, also, that at any minute anything might happen. So I thought I’d take a short walk, and as I was getting ready for it, a framed photograph in my bedroom set me thinking of Mrs. Beaney’s photograph again.

  I wondered, for instance, why she had taken the photograph at all. Maybe it did remind her of her sister, but it was just as likely that she saw a possible resemblance to herself, and wanted to exhibit it to some of her cronies as taken in some far-off days when her family was really something. I wondered if Maddon had cut off the bottom inch on which was the photographer’s name and address, and it seemed to me that that was the last thing he would have done. If he were using it as a hold over the person he was blackmailing, then those details were the important thing, for without them the photograph was unauthenticated, and merely a photograph of two people who might at that age have been anybody.

  When I set out, then, it was towards Mrs. Beaney’s cottage, and I was lucky enough to find her in. She recognised me at once, and was telling me that she was alone and her husband who was haying, wouldn’t be in till heaven knew when. I took that for friendly gossip and not as an invitation to frivolity.

  “Well, I won’t come in,” I said, but she was already backing to the living-room, and I had to follow. Then she asked if I’d like a nice cup of tea. No trouble at all. She was just making one for herself.

  “It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Beaney,” I said, “but I’m in a great hurry. What I’ve really come about is—”

  “I know,” she said. “To do with poor Mr. Maddon.”

  “In a way, yes,” I said. “But really to give you the chance of earning some money.”

  That made her eyes pop.

  “That photograph of the two children,” I said. “If you can find me the strip that was cut off from the bottom, I’ll give you a pound note.”

  On her face was the whole story—the fool she’d been to cut it off and burn it. But whoever’d have thought!

  “We’ll never find that, sir,” she told me, and the sorrow was guilefully for me. “Why, that must have been cut off years ago!”

  I didn’t tell her otherwise.

  “Of course,” I said. “But I thought there might just be a chance that you’d seen it lying about somewhere.”

  “If I do run across it,” she told me, “I’ll let you know at once. You’re staying with Mrs. Thornley, aren’t you, sir?”

  I gave an unnecessary yes. That woman probably knew what I had for lunch, if not tea. And she wasn’t going to get anything out of me by specious promises.

  “Try thinking again, Mrs. Beaney,” I said. “Imagine you’re looking at the bottom of the photograph and you see the word Windsor. What else do you see?”

  What she did see was some sort of catch in my question. That woman was wilier than a weasel.

  “All I did was to cut the bottom off to make it regular,” she said. “It was all torn when I found it. That’s why I knew he didn’t want it.”

  “Wasn’t there anything at all besides the word Windsor?” I asked, and jingled my loose change.

  She licked her lips. Then she did remember something.

  “Come to think of it, sir, there was. I remembered at the time how funny it was.”

  “Why was it funny?”

  “Well, because it ended in an O.”

  “A name ending in an O?”

  “Yes,” she said, “and now I come to remember it, it began with an O.”

  “Now we’re getting on,” I said. “A man’s name beginning with O and ending with O.”

  Through that cross-word puzzle brain of mine flashed every such word, and a pretty poor flash it was. Othello was the only name, though I did add Otranto and Oswego, Ohio and Oviedo, which are place-names. Then I did think of a name.

  “Orlando? How about that?”

  “That’s it, sir! Orlando. I thought what a nice name it was.”

  “It’s just the kind of fancy trade-name a photographer would take,” I said. “I congratulate you on your memory, Mrs. Beaney.”

  “Well,” she said complacently. “I never was much at school, but I did have a good memory. I’ll say that for myself.”

  I slipped her two half-crowns. While her voice was saying that she didn’t expect anything of the sort, her hooked fingers were closing over them.

  “And if you should think of anything else—of which you can be certain, mind you—you must let me know,” I said as we parted at the door.

  Quite a good quarter of an hour’s work, I thought to myself and I hadn’t a notion just then how good it would prove to be. Orlando I still thought a capital name. Neat but not gaudy. A bit of appeal in it, a bit of romance and a certain artistic reticence. So pleased was I with the discovery, in fact, that as soon as I got home I rang George.

  “Orlando?” he said grumpily. “Who the devil would have a name like that?”

  “Orlando Gibbons,” I said flippantly, “but he was rather before your time. And I’ve known photographers with even more highfalutin names than that. Look up the Telephone Directory and see.”

  The upshot was that he said he’d try it, and he said that none too graciously. When I aske
d if there was any other news he almost bit my head off. George too was feeling the approach of zero hour.

  The following morning I woke soon after six o’clock, which was two hours too soon, and when I’d tried for an hour to get to sleep again, I got up instead and took a stroll round the garden. At breakfast I had to force myself to eat, for I had no more appetite than a small boy who’s due in a few minutes to set off to the Zoo.

  The Times came, and when Helen had had her usual quick look at it, I took it to the summer-house and tried to settle down to the cross-word. But I just couldn’t do it. My eyes kept going to the front gate, so I went back to my den and there my ears were always cocked for the telephone. But it was well on the way to ten o’clock, and I consoled myself with the thought that in just about an hour I could safely set out for Little Foxes. Then I remembered that Santon was calling for me and I wondered if I might take a short stroll instead.

  I decided I hadn’t better. Santon might have changed his mind about the trip or Wharton might ring up. When I looked out of the window I saw Helen at her weeding, so I joined her. She soon found me a trowel.

  From time to time I glanced at my wrist-watch, and when at last it was a quarter to eleven I straightened my back and said I’d better be getting ready for Santon. The soil was dry as a bone and my hands weren’t too dirty, I thought, and just then I heard the sound of car brakes. It was Wharton’s car at the gate, and he was getting out in the devil of a hurry.

  “Morning, Mrs. Thornley,” he called. “Can’t come in.”

  Then he was beckoning to me and urgently.

  “Hop in,” he said and opened the near door. “Some-thing’s happened up at a place called Little Foxes.”

  “That’s just a few yards on,” I said, too taken aback to ask the right questions. “Commander Santon’s place.”

  He had already shot the car on with a jerk.

  “What is it George? What’s happened?”

  “You show me where the house is,” he told me snappishly. “Then we’ll both know what’s happened.”

  We were practically already there. There wasn’t any need for him to ask if the house was Little Foxes for Santon was coming out to the road and holding up his hand.

  “Commander Santon?” Wharton said as he scrambled out.

  “Yes. You’re Superintendent Wharton?”

  “Yes,” Wharton snapped at him, but I was looking at Santon. His fingers were twitching and he looked as if he’d had the devil of a shock.

  “Well, what is it?” Wharton was asking him. “What did you send for me for?”

  “It’s Mrs. Chevalle,” he said. He was trying to go on, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  “Yes, yes,” Wharton said impatiently. “Mrs. Chevalle. What’s happened to her?”

  “She’s shot herself,” he said. “Shot herself in my garden.”

  Part Three

  NO MORE LADY

  CHAPTER XII

  A CASE OF SUICIDE

  Santon went limping on ahead and at a quicker pace than most could have made with that game leg. Wharton had to stride to keep alongside him, and I brought up the rear.

  “Why did you send for me?” Wharton was asking him. “I know you said something but I didn’t catch it. The ’phone was bad.”

  “Chevalle asked me to send for you,” Santon said. “I’m afraid I was a bit flustered.”

  “He’s here?”

  “Why, yes,” Santon said, and seemed surprised at the question. His voice was much steadier, by the way.

  “Was he here after it happened?”

  “He was here when it did happen,” Santon said.

  “Must have been the devil of a shock,” I said.

  “Why, hallo, Travers,” Santon said with a quick look back, as if only then did he know I was there. “This way Superintendent.”

  Wharton had been making for the front door, but Santon went past it and towards the garage and then sharp right. We went across the lawn, through the hedge arch and on to the yellow, newly mown tennis court. I don’t know why we went all that way round. It seemed to me afterwards that we might just as well have gone straight down the path from the main gate. And if you want to follow what I mean, and just what took place that morning, below is a rough map of Little Foxes as I drew it later.

  Chevalle was standing in front of the summer-house as if waiting for us, and his face, usually the colour of old polished leather, now looked almost yellow. Wharton gave him a quiet good-morning and went right on.

  Thora Chevalle was lying on the summer-house floor, and it somehow seemed incongruous to me that she should be wearing a hat and a short coat. The hat had been knocked aslant when she fell, and was almost hiding her face. By her right hand was a little automatic.

  Wharton got down on a knee and moved the hat with a finger, and by the still sleek platinum of her hair I could see the browny-red mark where the bullet had entered. A small wound, and rather like that in Maddon’s skull, but upwards slightly and not so cleanly through the temple.

  “The doctor ought to be here at any time now.”

  That was Chevalle. I had not heard him come up and neither apparently had Wharton, for he gave him a quick look and then got to his feet.

  “He’ll do no good when he does come,” he said, and the very gruffness of his voice was a sympathy. “A bad business, Chevalle. I wish to God I weren’t here.”

  Chevalle said nothing. Some of the colour had come back to his cheeks, but his face was set and impassive. Wharton let out a breath and then ran an eye slowly round.

  That summer-house was well made. Its floor was of stout boards and each side had a metal-framed window that ran from front to back. In the back was a door, and all the front—but for knee-high boarding and opening—was open to the tennis-court. There was a table in one corner and stacked against it were four wicker chairs. Another chair had fallen and it looked as if it was the one on which Thora Chevalle had been sitting.

  Wharton took a look through the side window. The path to the woods curved behind the summer-house, but there was a perfect view of the front gate. As he turned, Santon anticipated the obvious question.

  “We might have come here that way,” he said, “but I wasn’t thinking. I’d got the house on my mind and . . . Well, perhaps you understand.”

  “I know,” Wharton said, and nodded understandingly. “But someone had better tell me something about it. What have you got to say, Commander? After all, this is your house.”

  Santon moistened his lips. Then he was shaking his head as if he didn’t like the job.

  “Well, tell me what happened,” Wharton said with a touch of impatience. “How’d she come to be here at all?”

  “It’s all so extraordinary,” Santon said, still shaking his head. “I don’t see how you can believe it.”

  “A curious statement?” Wharton said. “You’re a man of honour. Why shouldn’t we believe you?”

  “Well, perhaps so,” Santon answered lamely. “And there’s Major Chevalle. I wouldn’t like to hurt his feelings.” Chevalle said nothing. He mightn’t even have heard. “Feelings or not,” Wharton said, “I want a statement.” Santon shrugged his shoulders.

  “Very well then, here it is, and I give you my word it’s what happened. Yesterday morning it started, really. Mrs. Chevalle came to see me. I thought it was about War Savings’ business, but it wasn’t, and when she started talking I honestly thought she was out of her head.” He’d been looking away up till then, but now he gave Wharton a look clean in the eye. “She said you were threatening to arrest her for killing old Maddon!”

  “Yes?” said Wharton calmly.

  Santon looked surprised. He’d evidently expected some explanation from Wharton. He looked pretty blank for a moment.

  “Well, what was I to think?” he said. “I told her she must be crazy and she said she was—nearly. I tried to laugh her out of it. The upshot was that I thought there must be something behind it, so I said she had only to prove an alibi a
nd that she could do standing on her head, so to speak. She said she couldn’t. I asked her why and she wouldn’t tell me. Then I humoured her for a bit and got her to go home.” He shrugged his shoulders as if it were all still a mystery. “I didn’t know what to do. It sounded so damn silly to me—I mean her killing Maddon. I mean, why should she? Sounded absolutely crackers to me.”

  “Yes,” said Wharton. “I expect it did. But just why should she have come to you at all?”

  “About that? Well, frankly, I don’t know. We’re good friends, of course. Always have been. And we’re associated on this War Savings’ business, which means she’s in and out of here a goodish bit.”

  He shot a look at Chevalle, but Chevalle’s face still showed nothing.

  “Chevalle mustn’t mind my saying so,” he said, “and I’m open to correction if I’m wrong, but I gathered from her that he was the last person she wanted to confide in. That’s really why I didn’t ring him up yesterday.”

  “And this morning?” Wharton asked.

  “This morning she rang me up about nine o’clock and said she had to see me. I tried to choke her off. I told her I was going out to Upford, which I was. I was picking Major Travers up at eleven, at Ringlands. She said, if I didn’t see her she was going to shoot herself!”

  Wharton raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, what could I do? I said if she was coming she’d better hurry, and even then it was best part of an hour before she actually came. I’d got rid of Dewball—he’s my man—by sending him off to Hiver’s Wood to cut stakes for the tomatoes and I told him to cut a couple of hundred for the zinnias while he was there. Then she turned up. I thought there was going to be a scene, but there wasn’t. She said she was going away and would I take her to the station in my car. She’d practically finished packing, and she’d sent Mary and Clarice to Porthaven. Not Porthaven station, though. Combridge, that’s where she wanted me to take her. When I tried arguing with her, she pulled that gun out of her hand-bag and said if I didn’t do it then she’d shoot herself!”