When the hour of arrival came, it was too much for him to keep out of the limelight, and, contrary to standing orders, he rushed off to the station to supervise, instead of leaving matters to the guard as laid down. There he fell foul of Byron, for he began ordering the guard about before the gaping crowd, and ticking Byron off for doing the very things he was supposed to do. Byron came to Travers afterwards simply seething with rage.
“I think I ought to tell you I’m going to my Colonel to make a protest. I’ve had about as much in this camp as I can stand.”
Travers placated him.
“Right-ho,” Byron said. “I’ll take your advice, sir. But any more cracks like I’ve had recently, and there’s going to be a hell of a row. Only yesterday, sir, he was about as rude to one of my officers as he could be—and in front of the Colour-Sergeant.”
In spite of the fact that having prisoners made even more work, Travers enjoyed the break in routine. He also saw Winter in a new light, for the Interpreter certainly knew his job, and it was a joy to see him having a few homely words with a truculent Hun. But what Travers enjoyed most was the visit for interrogation purposes of a couple of Intelligence men from the War House. They knew their job if ever men did, and with one of them, a Captain Lading, Travers got quite pally. He even fixed up a meeting with Bernice in town.
Ten days after the prisoners arrived, word came down to move them forthwith to another camp. The panic was on again, but at last the camp was empty once more.
“I don’t know about you,” Stirrop said to Travers, “but I feel absolutely worked out. Isn’t it time some of us had a spot of leave?”
“What about you, sir?" Travers asked cunningly. "You’d like seven days at Christmas?”
“Well, I would,” Stirrop said. “What about you and Winter?”
“My wife’s coming down for ten days,” Travers said, “and I thought of putting up at the Royal. No reason, sir, why you and Winter shouldn’t both get away.”
A few days and Christmas came, and peace descended upon the camp. Life was to be like that. When the Commandant was there it was as if men worked in a fog, over a delayed-action bomb. When he was away, the fog lifted, there was no bomb and upstairs Mafferty could actually be heard humming. And it wasn’t that people took it easy. More work was done in less time, and time was left for leisure.
And now, after all these preliminaries, the decks are, as it were, cleared for action. But one question you may be asking yourself. How is it that you—the author—knew all about that camp and what was in Travers’s mind?
Well, there’s such a thing as giving information to the enemy, and being guilty of conduct prejudicial to good discipline, so I shall have to hedge. But you may remember that the camp took a long time to make, and it would be the Engineers in charge of most jobs. I might have been the head wallah known as the D.C.R.E., and so have been very close to Ludovic Travers.
In fact, to own up frankly, once I ran across him when he was very much down in the mouth, and he told me a good deal. Some of it I had guessed for myself. And when he mentioned that he’d stand a poor chance of being heard at Headquarters if he made a complaint, I gave him some news which ought to have cheered, him.
“Don’t you believe it,” I said. “Stirrop isn’t persona grata round there. I happen to know that they think he’s just a chatty little nuisance.”
Unfortunately, both for his own sake and for that of Stirrop, I don't think Travers quite believed me.
PART II
THE MURDERED MAJOR
CHAPTER IV
WHO WOULD BE AN ADJUTANT?
It was cold that January. Some people said such cold had never been known, and if No. 54 Prisoner of War Camp was anything to judge by, the statement was close to the mark. Three foot of frozen snow covered the park, and the provosts were out all day with fatigue parties, clearing paths. Pipes burst everywhere, and R.E. plumbers virtually lived on the place. Icicles hung like stalactites from eaves and sentry shelters, and the bitter wind cut like an Antarctic blizzard. Fuel entitlements and blanket allowances went by the board, but though the troops had half a dozen blankets per man instead of the regulation four, the hutments were still too cold for sleep. Men off duty would crouch round the stoves like broody hens, and each morning there was a sick parade like a theatre queue. The main building with its central heating was not too bad. Somewhat ironical that, that if prisoners came they would sleep better than troops.
Travers was awake that January morning long before his batman arrived, for the oil-stove had gone out, a keen blast was coming through the open window, and he was shivering beneath the piled blankets.
“Hadn’t you ought to sleep with this window shut, sir?” Sniffy ventured when he came in with the tea and caught the blast.
“Better be frozen than poisoned,” Travers told him. “What’s it like outside?”
“One o’ them silver thaws, sir. So slippy you can’t stand. May I have your Sam Browne, sir?”
“Sorry, I left it in the office,” Travers told him. “The telephone orderly will give it you.”
Travers gulped the hot tea, then lay on thinking. The usual Monday depression was at once in his mind. At ten o’clock Stirrop would be back from his usual week-end, and he was wondering what particular balloon would go up during the day. And, of course, there might be some more news about those P.W. coming. Gawd! how smoothly things might go if somehow Stirrop didn’t turn up after all. Why the devil someone hadn’t cracked him on the head long ago was hard to fathom. If it had been the front line, Stirrop would have had a bullet in the back long ago.
Travers smiled to himself at something he remembered, though it had been far from a smiling matter at the time. There had been some argument about rations, and Mafferty had been summoned to the Commandant’s room. There had been high words on all sides, with Mafferty finally losing his temper.
“My God! Don’t you answer me like that,” Stirrop had yelled at him. “You do as I bloody well tell you, or neck and crop out of this camp you go.”
Travers was just in time. He saw Mafferty’s clenched fist and the whitening knuckles, but it was he who stepped forward first between the two. Stirrop had noticed nothing, but he had had a narrow squeak. Afterwards Travers had cursed hell out of Mafferty for losing control. To be broken, and maybe given six months in military clink, was too big a price for personal satisfaction or even pleasure. Later Mafferty thanked Travers, but that same day he had taken French leave and wandered off somewhere with a mind too maddened for work.
The tea had brought a pleasant warmth and Travers snuggled down in bed. Once more he was busy with something that had vastly cheered him of late—a perfect scheme for the murder of Stirrop. Academic it might be, but there was something vastly pleasing in the mere prospect of seeing Stirrop dead only in imagination. And Travers had a dozen cunning alibis on which to draw. That one of the air-raid test was his favourite. Now suppose there was an imaginary incendiary in the roof and Stirrop could be induced—
The door opened and Sniffy reappeared.
“Here’s your things, sir, and it’s nearly a quarter past, sir.”
“My hat! So it is!” said Travers, and scrambled out of bed.
Young Pewter was the only one in the Mess, and at the marmalade stage of breakfast.
“Morning, sir.”
“.Morning, Pewter. You Orderly Officer?”
“Yes. sir,” grinned Pewter. “Not a bad job either, these days. Better than being on parade.”
Then in came Byron.
“Morning, sir. Any news about those P.W.?”
“Divil a word,” Travers told him. “All the same you hadn’t better let any men out of camp.”
“Commandant coming back?”
“Why not?” Travers asked dryly.
Byron flushed sheepishly. “Oh, I just wondered.”
Travers clapped him on the shoulder. “You keep your thoughts well under your hat, young feller-me-lad.”
He finished bre
akfast and was having a quick look at The Times when Winter appeared. He was spruce as ever, and showing only the least trace of a hangover.
“How’s tricks, old-timer?” asked Byron, who was a great pal of his.
“Oh, about the same,” Winter told him in that quiet, almost taciturn way of his. “Any news about P.W., Travers?”
“Nothing new, but they’re still on the menu.”
Then Doc. Dulling put his nose through the door, spotted Travers, and came in. He was a quiet little cove, always landing himself in hot water through his utter ignorance of military procedure. Travers liked him, though rather irritated by the persistence of the bedside manner even when Stirrop was at his most objectionable.
“Ah, here you are then,” Dulling said. “Can you spare me a minute?”
“Spare you half a dozen,” Travers told him. “Have a cup of our delicious coffee. Or was it tea?”
“I’ve just had one at the cookhouse,” Dulling said.
“Come along then,” said Travers. “We can talk on the way to the office.”
Dulling thought the fug in the huts was highly dangerous. Better open windows and issue more blankets still rather than have cerebro-spinal. And could the huts be regularly sprayed? The R.A.M.C. sergeant would be responsible.
“Give us a list of what you want to indent for, and we’ll try to rush it through,” Travers told him. “If it isn’t available, buy it yourself and bring me the bills and I’ll pay you out of either camp account or contingent. Anything else?”
“Any news about prisoners?”
“Nothing new,” Travers said. “As soon as anything comes through I’ll ring you at your house.”
The two parted outside Travers’s office. Inside, the room was red-hot. The night telephone orderly and his runner had seen to that. Travers got down to the morning’s mail, and was soon frowning as he glanced at the clock. Miss Dance late again.
The telephone went. Travers mechanically picked up the receiver, thou winced as he heard the quick, impatient, high-pitched voice.
“Hallo, hallo! What the hell’s the matter with the ’phone? . . . Hal-LO! Ah, is that you, Travers? Would you believe it? For ten minutes I’ve been trying to get hold of you . . .”
Five minutes of that and he came to the point.
“What I wanted to ask you, old chap, was about coming in this morning. You wouldn’t believe the muddle there is here. Burst pipes and every other bloody thing.”
“No earthly need for you to come in, sir,” Travers assured him.
“You sure? Nothing about those prisoners?”
“Even if the prisoners do come, sir, there’re plenty of us here to look after a tupp’ny-ha’penny job like that.”
“Well”—a little titter—“I suppose there are—really. You don’t mind then if I don’t come in? I shan’t turn up unless I hear from you, then it might be late.”
“I think you’d be unwise to come in late,” Travers said. “The roads are pretty bad. Why not take a day off and come in in the morning?”
“Well, I hardly like to. Suppose some brass hat comes round?”
“There’s such a thing as your being under the weather,” Travers suggested diplomatically. “I don’t think there’re any questions a brass hat can put up that I can’t find an answer for.”
The ’phone was replaced and Travers was nodding to himself with well-earned self-congratulation. Then in walked Miss Dance.
“Good morning, Captain Travers.”
“Good evening, Miss Dance.”
She laughed, “But it isn’t so late as that, surely. And my alarm clock went wrong.”
“There was a certain American President, I think it was, who once remarked that either his secretary must get a new watch or else he’d get a new secretary.”
“But you’re not the Commandant,” Miss Dance said pertly.
Travers’s eye narrowed.
“I don’t think I’d say that again if I were you,” he told her frigidly. “You’re working in my office, and being late is bad discipline. And if you imagine it’s a question of your going or my going, then work out the chances for yourself. And now, please, get on with copying this Army Council Instruction in quintuplicate.”
Before he could settle again to the morning’s post, the ’phone bell was once more ringing.
“Is that No. 54 Prisoner of War Camp?”
“Yes. The Adjutant speaking. Who’s that?”
“This is War Office—Major Vince.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
‘Is the Commandant there?”
“No, sir, he’s rather under the weather this morning. Anything I can do, sir?”
“Those prisoners you were told to expect. They’ll be coming some time to-day. Midland Command will telegraph arrangements.”
“Very good. sir. A’s or B’s, are they?”
“Oh, treat ’em all as B’s. You won’t be keeping them more than a few days.”
“Numbers, sir?”
“Numbers? Midland Command will tell you all that.”
Travers replaced the receiver, then leaned back in his chair and stoked his pipe. He half rose as if to go through to Winter with the news, and then in came an orderly.
“Telegram for you, sir.”
It was the one from Midland Command. Seventy-four crew and enemy aliens ex S.S. Grossenfeldt, with one officer and thirty other ranks escort arriving Shoreleigh station twenty hours. Escort to return immediately on completion.
Travers got through at once to R.T.O. at Shoreleigh station. He had heard about the move, and confirmed train times.
“Right-ho,” said Travers. “We’ll be there with necessary transport. You ask civilian police to be there and keep back Nosey-Parkers.”
“Not many of them at that time of night,” he was told. “And you can bet the trains will be running late.”
Travers went into action. Ramble and Mafferty were called down to Winter’s room, and Byron was sent for. Inside a quarter of an hour, everything was cut and dried. Mafferty would see to rations—B. class rations, which were those of Prisoners of War—-and would have a hot meal ready from twenty-one hours onwards. Ramble would have the necessary rooms ready, and warn provosts and their squads. Byron would take additional guards to the station, and arrange hut accommodation for the arriving escort. He would also have imaginary day and night practice with sentries forthwith.
“That’s that then,” Travers said. “All that remains to do is to warn the doctor, and arrange transport. You might ring the doctor, Ramble, will you? Captain Winter, you’ll be responsible for your own show. I’ll count the prisoners as they come in, and lend a hand with the reception.”
“What’ll the Commandant be doing?” asked Winter.
Travers had been somewhat amusedly noticing the growing perturbation, and now he sprang his pleasant surprise. The air lightened with relief.
‘’You’ll pardon me, sir,” Ramble said, “but do you really think the Commandant will expect to be warned?”
“The Commandant agreed that we could handle the situation,” replied Travers officially.
“I can certainly handle my end,” Byron said promptly.
“Everyone can,” put in Mafferty bluntly. “There’s nothing to handle, sir, if you go about it the right way.”
Travers was going back to his office when Winter gave a precautionary little cough.
“Too busy, are you, to spare a minute or two?”
“Good Lord, no,” Travers said.
Winter sent his clerk off on business, then listened at the communicating door for the sound of Miss Dance’s typewriter.
“The Commandant’s been up to his old tricks again,” he told Travers quietly. “About you, to me, this time.”
Some weeks previous it had been discovered that Stirrop was in the habit of discussing members of his staff with others, behind their backs, and at Winter’s request principally and primarily it had been understood between him and Travers that if Stirrop discussed e
ither, each, unless secrecy had been requested, should at once communicate with the other. Some of the disclosures were annoying and some ironically amusing, as when, for instance, Stirrop had plaintively said with regard in Travers: ‘’He likes being a martyr, that’s what it is? What’s the fellow doing? Nothing at all. Every time I go in his room he’s sitting there smoking that filthy pipe.”
“Yes,” went on Winter. “It was on Friday. You knew he’d sent for me?”
“I think it was after I left,” Travers said.
“Oh, yes, you’d gone. He’d got some stranger in there, telling him The Story of My Life, and kept me hanging about till best part of half-past six. Then he began talking generalities just for an excuse, and then dragged the conversation round to you. Asked all sorts of questions about your private life. Most interested in knowing if you had any private influence. I told him damn all.”
Travers grunted.
“I think his idea was to find out if he could give you the push,” went on Winter.
Travers smiled grimly. “He’ll have a scrap on his hands.”
“My God, he will!” He hesitated for a moment or two. “I suppose he hasn’t been chattering about me or my enormities lately?”
It was Travers’s turn to hesitate.
“Well,” he said at last, “as a matter of fact there was something—and on Friday—which I didn’t like to repeat for fear of hurting your feelings.”
Winter shot him a quick glance.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a hide like a rhinoceros.”
“Right-ho, then,” Travers said. “He was most anxious for me to tell him all I knew about you—which also was damn-all. Then he said that ever since he’d clapped eyes on you he was sure he’d met you somewhere years ago, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember where.”
Winter gave a sniff.
“He told me that himself one day. As I said, the world’s a small place. What I was certain of was that I’d never met him. He’s unforgettable.”
The Case of the Murdered Major: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 5
