“Yes,” thought Travers, “Ramble wouldn’t worry about a little thing like a crack on the skull. And yet somehow it isn’t quite in keeping. A bullet in the belly some dark night—yes. But not creeping up behind with a sandbag. And Ramble was the one person who could never be suspected of having fired that shot in the corridor.”
So Travers decided to leave Ramble out. He was even sorry he had put down Mafferty, and yet it was better to let Wharton know all rather than cast suspicion by trying to conceal.
The ’phone bell went. Wharton, using his more unctuous tone, was asking if he might see Miss Dance. There was a letter to dictate for one thing. Then might he see Ramble and Mafferty.
Miss Dance went off in a flutter and came back beaming. Wharton had a way with women. Most thought him “an old darling,” and Bertha Dance was no exception, except that she considered him “rather a duck.” In the interval Travers had seen Friedemann and had conveyed to that gentleman in no uncertain terms that the camp was entirely under new management.
Wharton was not in to lunch, and the Mess orderly said he had left a message that he might not be back before dark.
“He was wandering round the hutments about an hour ago,” Dowling said. “I asked one of the men who it was and he said he thought it was a new manager for the Ν.A.A.F.I.”
Travers laughed. “I must tell him that.”
“I like him,” Byron said. “I ran across him and we had a bit of a yarn together. Then he went on inside the building, by the way. Didn’t seem to give a cuss about being alone with the prisoners.”
“Did you see the snowballing this morning, sir?” asked Dowling.
“What snowballing was that?”
“The old Hun. Having a regular romp in the yard. I didn’t know he could be so frivolous.”
“The Hun has his moments,” Travers said.
Later that afternoon he mentioned that snowballing to Winter. Winter wasn’t up to the game, so Travers explained.
“It’s to do with that tunnel. They’ve got to dispose of the earth somewhere. You know the usual method, to carry it out of the room in their pockets and scatter it outside. They can’t do that because it would be seen on the snow, so they’ve been faking a game of snowballs and hiding the earth under the snow.”
“I say, that’s ingenious,” Winter said. “And funny. Doing all those comic tricks and thinking we don’t know. It’s a pity we can’t get them red-handed at it.”
“All in good time,” smiled Travers. “Let ’em go on sweating blood for a bit, and then when we’re ready, we’ll pounce. Or when Lading’s ready.”
“I saw him this morning,” Winter said. “Gave him a chance to make a sign, but the crafty devil never batted an eyelid.”
Travers, feeling quite another man as things now stood, felt also a new appreciation of Winter, and he gave him a rough idea of what had happened at that interview with the Brigadier. Travers had told the yarn as rather a joke. Winter was most indignant.
“If I’d been there I’d have told him your alibi was all right,” he said. “I think it was damn’ cheek. And there’d be a row if you reported it.”
“I don’t know,” Travers said. “It’s just as well to have been given a clean bill of health. Besides, when we get down to brass tacks, you couldn’t prove I was in my room all the time.”
“I could go very near it,” Winter said, and smiled to himself. “At about eight o’clock you did something I’d never heard you do before. I nearly hollered through to ask if you’d come into money.”
“What was I doing?”
“You were humming ‘Roll out the barrel.’”
“Good Lord, so I was!”
“Then at about a quarter past you changed the tune. It was, ‘There’ll always be an England.’”
Travers laughed. ‘’Patriotic sort of cove. Anything else?”
Winter shook his head.
‘Ί don’t know that there was. Wait a minute, though. I remember glancing at the time to see how far off a quarter to nine it was, and I heard you stoke up the fire.”
“That’s right,” beamed Travers. “You and I’ll tell that to the Brigadier if he does any more funny business.”
Winter said he must get back to work. The cards had gone and the prisoners’ accounts were all in order. All he had to do was make out for W.O. another list like the one that had been stolen.
“That was a remarkable business,” Travers said frowningly. “What use could it be to anybody?”
“To the prisoners themselves, the very devil of a lot of use.” pointed out Winter. “It had the names of the four secret anti-Nazis on it. If our local Gestapo has got hold of it, those four are in for the hell of a time.”
“We’ll see to that,” Travers said grimly. “All the same, it’s remarkably strange. Whichever way you turn in this case you run up against prisoners. That extra prisoner business, and now this, and what’s more, I think Stirrop was killed inside the building. And we know he was shot at by a prisoner.”
“It’s got me beat,” Winter said. “Still, perhaps the Superintendent will get hold of something that we haven’t seen. By the way, now things are a bit slacker, I thought I’d go down town after tea.”
“My dear fellow, do,” Travers said promptly. “You’ve been sticking to things too closely as it is.”
Just before six o’clock Colonel Caithby rang Travers to say there were certain items connected with Stirrop’s funeral arrangements he would like to discuss. Winter was still in the Mess and said Travers might have his car. He was going down town with Byron.
It was seven o’clock when Travers got back, and who should be waiting at the office but Winter.
“I changed my mind about going down town,” he said. “The most extraordinary thing has happened.”
CHAPTER XII
EXIT LADING
The fact that Byron was going down town in his car had made Winter alter his arrangements. Winter did have a job of work to do in Shoreleigh, but he promptly arranged to meet Byron for dinner, and then to do a cinema and come back to camp together. But Byron could not start out till later than Winter had intended, so he decided to write a hasty letter or two in his room and catch the last post with them in Shoreleigh.
It was while Winter was writing that he heard the tap on the door. Thinking it was Sniffy, he called a “Come in,” and went on with his writing. Then a voice said quietly, “Hallo, Winter. What’s happened to Travers?”
It was Lading, still in his prisoner’s clothes, and carrying a handbag which he set down just inside the door.
“Good God!” said Winter, startled out of his life. “How the devil did you get here?”
Lading reached out and switched off the light. The oil-stove made a certain glow in the room.
“Just used those keys Travers gave me,” Lading said.
“But how the devil did you get through the gates without a sentry seeing you!”
“Ways and means,” Lading told him laconically.
“And how did you know Travers had told me about you?”
“He’d have to after what happened to Stirrop,” Lading said. “Besides, there was the way you looked at me this morning. You can take these keys, by the way. I shan’t be needing them again.”
“What’re you going to do, then?”
“First of all, have a shave. Cold water’ll do. You keep cave at the door. Is this black-out effective?”
Winter said it was, but he had a look from outside to make sure. Lading unlocked his bag and got out shaving tackle. The beard was scissored, then removed, and then Lading was careful to sweep up every hair. Winter put them in a foolscap envelope, and said he’d stuff them down the Mess stove.
“When’s Travers likely to be back?” Lading wanted to know.
“Couldn’t say,” Winter told him. “If you like to hide under that bed or something, I’ll ring him at H.Q. and make out he’s urgently wanted.”
“Can’t wait,” Lading said, shaking his head. “
What I’d like you to do now is to fetch me a suit of battle-dress. You’ve got some in your store, haven’t you?”
“But I haven’t got a key,” Winter told him. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll try and get hold of the Quartermaster-Sergeant and borrow his on some pretext or other.”
Lading shook his head again.
”Too damn’ risky. Besides, I’ve got to be in Shoreleigh soon after seven. You’ve got a car, haven’t you?”
Winter explained, then had a brainwave.
“If you’re game, I’ll tell you what you can do. I’m supposed to be going down town in five minutes’ time with Byron—you remember him? The guard officer. He’ll draw up his car outside the Mess and I’ll make an excuse to send him somewhere for a minute and you can slip in at the back. He’ll never dream of looking behind. When he gets down town, you can slip out at some of the traffic lights, I’ll say I’ve been detained here and I’m coming down to meet him later in my own car when Travers brings it back.”
“Sounds good to me,” Lading said. “But you’d better lend me a waterproof of sorts and a civilian hat.”
Winter handed over his own at once.
“Anything else you want?”
“I could do with three inches of whisky,” Lading told him.
“Nip under that bed, then,” Winter said, “and I’ll slip round to the Mess. I’m afraid you’ll have to gulp it.”
Lading had his drink while Winter listened at the door for the sound of Byron’s car.
“Any urgent message for Travers?” Winter asked.
“Not much,” Lading said. “I’ve finished inside, and next time he sees me, whenever that is, I’ll be coming through the front gate. Just tell him I’ve made some useful contacts which I’m going to try out. Oh, and that tunnel’s off. There’s an idea that someone’s blown the gaff”—he gave a wink at that—“which may be one reason why I skipped.”
Winter held up a warning hand and switched off the light.
“Watch out from here,” he whispered. “I’ll be standing by the car and the near side door will be open. When you see me look up at the sky, nip along like a streak.”
Everything went according to plan. Winter threw an old rug into the back. Byron came out and was told about the new arrangements, but Winter added that as he had something to do at Main Guard he might as well ride that far.
At the gate the car drew up. Byron gave the usual holler and the voice was recognised. The gates were opened, Winter slipped out, and off the car shot towards the town.
That was the astounding news that Travers heard when he got back that evening.
“And he didn’t tell you where to get hold of him?” he asked Winter.
“He didn’t give even an inkling of what he was going to do,” Winter told him. “I gathered he’d be turning up here in due course. Mind you, he hadn’t much time to say a thing. You wouldn’t believe how queer it all was. And all over in about ten minutes. You ought to have seen him hack that beard off!” Then he gave a look of comical dismay as he felt his pocket. “My God, I’ve forgotten to burn the hair!”
“Drop it in the stove when you go in,” Travers said. “But it’s most exasperating about Lading. The one thing I wanted to do was contrive a meeting between him and Wharton.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Winter said. “He’s the cleverest devil unhung—and the most erratic. For all we know he might turn up to-night. Which reminds me. You’ll have to square the night count.”
“My hat, yes!” said Travers, and smiled. “You’re a damn-good feller at times. Always hauling me out of holes before I fall in ’em. And now you slip off or you’ll be late down town.”
“I think I will.” He turned at the door, a look of amusement on his face. “Do you know, wherever we are to-night I’ll be expecting him to turn up. You know how he used to pop up from nowhere, with his, ‘Hallo, the gang!’”
“Yes, he’s a great chap,” said Travers. “Hope to heaven Byron doesn’t take it into his head to look in the back of the car.”
Winter chuckled. “If he did, you bet Lading’d swing clear somehow. And, my hat, wouldn’t he give the old Bosche a time if ever he was a prisoner in Germany!” Out he went, still chuckling, then gave a last look back. “Don’t forget squaring the count.”
“And don’t forget to burn that envelope,” countered Travers. “And, hi! Was Superintendent Wharton in the Mess?”
“Who’s taking my name in vain?” said the familiar voice, and Wharton himself walked in. “What’s the excitement? And what’s the idea of being in here?”
Travers took him to his own room and told just what had happened. Wharton was quite indifferent.
“If he’s half as clever as you make out, he’s told you all he knows you ought to know,” was his comment. “And if he tells you, it’s the same as telling me.”
Then he gave a grunt of profound disapproval. “There weren’t such goings on in Intelligence in my day. What is this? A camp or a penny-dreadful? Hiding in backs of cars and all that damn-rubbish.”
“You’re just peevish,” Travers told him. “Been gadding about too much down town. Got traveller’s headache probably. And where exactly have you been?”
A certain unction at once crept into Wharton’s tone
“Oh, just having a look round. Getting my bearings, so to speak. I did have a word or two with a couple of our men from the Special Branch.”
Travers stared. “What’re they doing here?”
“Didn’t you pass on a message from that—what’s his name? Lading—about the Italian consulate here? Well, what do you think we did. Shaved off our beards and hid in the backs of cars?” He snorted. “Got a couple of men down and had the place under observation inside four hours. That’s what we did.”
“Good for you,” Travers told him.
“They give you a good lunch at the Royal,” went on Wharton complacently.
Travers stared again. “Never knew you go in for lunches at four-and-a-kick a time. Cup of tea and a doughnut’s more your line.”
“The Government pays,” Wharton told him amusedly. “Also I wanted to clap eyes on a man called Tester whom you mentioned last night.”
He peered up, looking for applause. Travers laughed.
“Always catching me out, George. A whetstone for your wits, as the Bard has it. And now get the city grime off your face and meet me in the Mess. I’ve a quick job of work in the office.”
What he did was to ring guard company orderly-room, and leave an urgent message. The Orderly Officer and Orderly Provost to be informed at once that a prisoner, Beckner by name, had left camp under Commandant’s supervision and the count would therefore be only seventy-two. A chit was sent to Ramble by a runner, and a message was left on Mafferty’s table to the effect that there would be one less prisoners’ rations as from that date.
As he walked across to the Mess, Travers wondered if he had done right. Two courses had been open to him in that matter of Lading’s departure. He might have announced the escape of a prisoner. That would have meant disciplinary action against the rest, as the confining in their rooms and a general search. There would have been a lot of talk among the troops, and something would have leaked out to the Press, and then W.O. enquiries would have come down, and the whole business would have been a living up to and remembering a whole series of lies and subterfuges. So the second course seemed far better. If Byron discovered that no prisoner had passed out through the main gate, and began asking awkward questions, he could be told tactfully to mind his own affairs. As for the prisoners, they could be left guessing. In a game of bluff of that sort, he could always win. Besides, if Lading was not going back inside, what did it matter what Friedemann and his gang either thought or suspected?
Travers saw Wharton approaching and slipped into his hand that list of suspects and comments.
“Put that in your pocket, George.”
“What is it?” asked Wharton jocularly. “A tip?”
“Maybe,”
said Travers. “But not the kind you’re thinking of.”
There was a special darts’ competition in the Ν.Α.Α.F.Ι. hut that night, with Dowling and Pewter both performing, so Wharton and Travers had the Mess to themselves. The Mess orderly on duty even asked if he would be wanted any more. Travers had drinks brought in, and sent him off.
It was cosy in that little room, with a blazing fire and comfortable chairs. Travers, after dinner, had The Times crossword expectantly on his lap, and it was Wharton who began talking about the case.
“I got some quite good prints of that Captain Tester,” he said. “Sent them off to the Yard with the others.”
“You’re a quick mover,” said Travers admiringly. ‘’But what others?”
Wharton glanced round and lowered his voice.
“Byron’s, the other two officers’, Mafferty’s and Ebbing’s.”
“Good Lord!” said the horrified Travers. “You sending officers’ fingerprints to the Yard!”
“Why not?” asked Wharton unconcernedly. “You’re not ham-stringing me with any of that old school tie bunkum. These are queer times, aren’t they?” He gave a snort. “I remember in the last war, just before Messines—” He broke off. “Still, we needn’t worry about that now. Where’d I put that paper you gave me?”
He found it, adjusted those antiquated spectacles, peered at Travers over their tops like a suspicious gnome, then began to read. The first grunt arrived.
“I saw the doctor this morning. Quiet little chap. And how do you expect me to find out how he got his job?”
“As Lading was always saying, there’re ways and means.”
Wharton grinned again and resumed his reading. Strange to say there were no more comments beyond the inevitable question why Travers had not put the case for his list.
“That’s soon done,” Travers said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve given you most of my objections already.” He thought for a moment. “Dulling, we’ll leave sub judice, as it were. I can’t say anything on behalf of Tester except that you could have access to his record at W.O. You ought to know enough about the three guard officers if you’ve got so pally as to be able to purloin their fingerprints. Ebbing you know more about than I do, except that I wouldn’t trust him farther than I can throw a battleship. Mafferty’s the danger. He stands out yards. He’s a genius at his job, which means he’s got brains, but I just happen to think he wouldn’t have killed Stirrop in quite that way. If he did kill him, I’d swear in any court of law that he had more than abundant provocation.”
The Case of the Murdered Major: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 15
