“As for the night when he took that shot at Stirrop, he was too clever. Perhaps he thought someone—Mafferty, for instance—must have heard somebody in the store, so he reported it first, and there were the remains of the snow on his own boots to prove it. And what I want you to remember now is that the existence of an extra prisoner was established. Winter took a risk that night when Stirrop was in charge of the count, but he knew Stirrop and guessed he’d count in his own pig-headed way. Later, as I’ve just said, he knew that the one person who’d swear blind there was an extra prisoner, was Stirrop.”
He paused a moment for effect.
“And that’s how Stirrop really came to be killed. You will note that once Stirrop was dead, there was no extra prisoner. There was no need of one, and if there had been, then it would have been too risky. Captain Travers had taken too many precautions to have the counts correct. So Winter had to find a new way to kill Stirrop, and he found it.” Wharton again paused dramatically. “He found it in the same extra prisoner scheme, and because he knew Major Stirrop.”
He rolled himself a spill and lighted his pipe.
“That’s better. And now where was I? Oh, yes, at where Major Stirrop was killed. We’ll leave that alone for a bit because it comes in later. What we come to next are all sorts of things. What I thought about the dropped sandbag, for instance, and how Winter was in charge of A.R.P., or whatever you call it, and how he discovered sand missing from some of the buckets. Aha! I said to myself, now there’s a fine way for someone to have procured a sandbag if he wanted to drop one from the roof or elsewhere. Take an empty sandbag up and fill it with a little from each of scores of buckets. That led me to an examination of that veranda, where I made a certain discovery—namely a stout nail at the head of one of the pillars. Even then I didn’t see the whole scheme, though I had ideas.
“Then Captain Travers showed me a paper he’d taken from Major Stirrop’s wallet. That did give me ideas, and it also kept me thinking about Winter. He was the one who fitted in best, and that’s why I took the trouble, as you know, sir, to get into touch with Colonel Cross. I’d like Captain Travers to have another look at that paper now.”
He referred to his notebook and read aloud:
Ring W.O. and see if Harry Cross still B.C. Get ’phone num. . . . (Garrison?) Weinholst, and what about beard? Mention Trav.? Two birds one stone. After to-night.
“Well, I did ring Border Command and Colonel Cross was still there, and I got the ’phone number from Garrison. Then that bit about Weinholst explained itself, because a long talk on the ’phone with the Colonel revealed that he knew all about the Weinholst brothers. Cross was also a friend of Stirrop, and when he had last seen him they had been comparing notes about things in general, and it turned out that Stirrop had also known the younger Weinholst. Mind you, I still didn’t think Weinholst was other than a prisoner. That bit about the beard was what swindled me. You could have knocked me down with a feather when—”
“Is Captain Travers wise to that little trick of ours?” put in Caithby.
Wharton peered quizzically at Travers over the tops of his spectacles.
“I don’t think he is. I had to keep all sorts of things away from Captain Travers. You never knew who was listening. But the Colonel Fraser of our inspection was Colonel Fraser Cross. We induced him to come, and he sacrificed a moustache for us, and Winter never spotted him. Why should he? He’d never seen the Colonel in khaki. In fact, he hadn’t seen him for years.
“And now the rest of that paper explains itself. Stirrop had remembered who it was Winter resembled, and he wondered if he should mention it to you, Captain Travers. The two birds with one stone were the two things he was going to do that night. One was to test something Winter had promised to prove to him—we’ll come to that later—and the other was to consult Captain Travers.”
“And then probably take his own view,” said Caithby, dryly.
“Well, I didn’t know the gentleman,” Wharton said, “but I gather you’re not far out. And to go on with Winter; as soon as he was on my short list, I went into his alibi. If I couldn’t bust that, then he would come off the list. And I did bust it, at least to my own satisfaction. Which brings us to the events of to-day.”
Wharton stoked his pipe and gave a shrewd look round.
“We all have to have luck sometimes, and mine was when I could get a good enough hold-on for Tester. Then I announced that I knew he had accomplices, and that I had a scheme, which nobody else knew, mind you, to make him squeal. It was a bluff, but not a risky one—except perhaps for me. Frankly, I didn’t expect it to come off, but it did. This afternoon Winter approached me very confidentially, and said he’d overheard two prisoners talking, and they’d accidentally revealed the secret of the extra prisoner. He’d rather I didn’t mention the matter to a soul until we’d tested things out, but would I meet him after dark at the entrance to the building. Seven-fifteen was the exact time mentioned.
“That was when I knew for a certainty how Stirrop had been killed. The way, in fact, gentlemen, that I was going to be. When you drop anything down from a height, you can hit your target in the dark if your target’s still, and you have some means of letting the object fall plumb on his head. Those pillars are straight up and down. Drop a sandbag from the top of one and it must fall straight down it.’
“There was a confederate?”
“No—and yes.” Wharton smiled. “The confederate was a razor blade. Imagine a candle with a flat top. Stick a pin in the top, say a quarter of an inch down. Take a little ball of anything to represent the sandbag and attach it to a length of cotton. Let the cotton go over the pin, leaving the bag dangling. Now attach the length of cotton to another pin at the bottom of the candle.” He had been doing it all by way of illustration. “Now I take my knife and cut the cotton, like this. Down comes the bag and I know to the millionth of an inch where it’s going to drop. For cotton, substitute stout cord. The candle’s the pillar nearest the south-west wall, the pins are nails driven into the brickwork of the wall—the bottom one hidden under the snow—the bag is a full sandbag, and the knife is a razor blade.”
Wharton peered at his listeners with a droll kind of apprehension.
“That, gentlemen, was what was in store for me, and I’m no hero. When I began to think of that sandbag falling, I didn’t like the idea a bit. In the good old Army phrase, I had the wind clean up. Winter was a stronger man than I, and he’d make sure I didn’t move when the bag fell. That’s why I took Mafferty into my confidence. And it’s why I had an ambulance ready. Someone was likely to get hurt, though I hoped it wouldn’t be me. And if nobody was hurt—well, it would do for a black Maria.
“Mafferty was to be on that veranda five minutes before we were due to arrive, and he was to keep a sharp look-out for Winter beforehand. For the sand-bag he was to substitute something reasonably heavy and not dangerous, and I was to put some protection inside my hat. Mafferty was to have his rifle, and I would have the gun. What I expected was that as soon as the bag hit me, Winter would make sure I was dead, and then drag or carry me a few yards away in the dark, out of the reach of wire lighting. When he found I wasn’t dead, I’d have to hold him up with my gun. If he shot first, or dubbed me, or stabbed me, then Mafferty would get him.”
Wharton shook his head and heaved a reminiscent sigh.
“Only it didn’t quite pan out that way. We met—Winter and I—and he said the extra prisoner was hidden in that sort of tower room on the south-west corner. He was due to get out from a window and we were to watch. He placed me plumb under the sandbag, and warned me not to move whatever I heard. Then he said, ‘What’s that!’ and his hand got a good grip of my arm. His other hand went back and the blade cut the cord. There was a kind of swish and before I could even wriggle, something caught me the very devil of a wallop on the skull. I didn’t have to sham dead, gentlemen. I went over into the snow and it was a second or so before I got going. And something had gone wrong.
&
nbsp; “Mind you, all this happened while you could count ten. Winter, thinking I was a goner, as Stirrop had been, first grabbed the bag, to empty the sand out and hide it under the snow, and make the snow smooth again as he had done the last time. But it wasn’t sand, and he knew it. Out came a knife, and he made for where I lay. I let him have a shot and I think I hit him. He turned and bolted for the gate. I hollered to Mafferty who brought him down. All as quick as that.”
He shook his old head.
”I don’t think I’ve ever been so seared in my life. I couldn’t get that damn’ gun out at first, and he was actually on me when I fired. Still, here we are. Sound in wind and limb, as they say. And that I think, gentlemen, is about all.”
“But what about that alibi, George?” Travers asked promptly. “I still don’t see how he could be listening to all my movements and out there with Stirrop at the same time?”
“It’s this way,” Wharton told him, “and to-night we’ve proved it. Winter first acquired a quick reputation for slamming doors. Then he fixed it for you and him to be working in adjoining rooms, and he cut the ’phone so that no message would come to interrupt you. He met Stirrop at a quarter past eight, and he expected to be away for no more than ten minutes to fifteen minutes at the most. Up to that time he took good care to listen to you. He heard you whistling or humming, and he heard you stoke the fire, and he remembered it. Then when he went out he turned off the light and slipped a big icicle under the door, and left the door half open.
“But something went wrong. Perhaps Stirrop argued the point or got suspicious. Then the Orderly Officer was late and came by just when he’d put the body in position. He didn’t expect the Orderly Officer at all. The usual procedure is for the O.O. to come from the Company Office, and the Provost from the Sergeants’ Mess, and they meet at the back door. It must have been a shock when he came along, and all Winter could do was step on Stirrop’s body and crouch behind it in the snow. That’s what made the second impression, and why there were no footprints. Then he had to get the snow off his clothes, and dispose of the sandbag. I’d say he did that job last, and it was the experience he gained that made him tackle that job first tonight—before he disposed of me, that is.
“At any rate, it was about a quarter to nine when he got back, and he must have been scared. The ice had melted and the door had slammed, and, luckily, at the most convenient time, for there you were, Captain Travers, turning on the light, and all he had to do was say he had gone to Stirrop’s room for the appointment, and he wasn’t there. The water on the floor was explained away, and by assuming that while he was away you’d been doing what you’d been doing while he was there, he established his alibi. By offering to establish your alibi to the Brigadier, he still further established his own alibi, to which you would have been prepared and to swear on a stack of Bibles. Isn’t that so?”
Travers smiled lamely. The old Colonel, who had got to his feet, patted him on the back.
“Never mind, young feller. I‘d have thought what you did. And you had a lucky escape. What do you say, Wharton?”
"He certainly did, sir,” Wharton said emphatically. “If he had shown any suspicions, he’d have had a knife in his ribs. He'd have been buried somewhere, like poor Lading, and it would have been related how he and Stirrop had had a violent quarrel, and Stirrop had been killed and Travers had bolted.”
“I see all that now,” Travers said, “but there’s one thing I still don’t see. When I went into Winter’s room, before he came back, I picked up a card he had been doing and the ink was still wet. And yet he’d been away best part of half an hour!”
“All part of the alibi,” Wharton said, getting to his feet too, and stretching his legs. “Try a little pure glycerine in your ink and see what happens.”
Caithby nodded.
“Well, I must be moving. I won't wake the Brigadier tonight, but le’ll want to hear all about it in the morning.” He smiled and out went his hand to Wharton. “Meanwhile, my own congratulations.”
They went to the main gate together. “See you both in the morning,” Caithby said. “And I don’t know about you, but I doubt if I’ll get much sleep. I can’t get that poor devil Lading’s face out of my mind. A damnable business. And, as you say, someone will swing for it.”
“How did you get on to what happened to Lading?” Travers asked Wharton as they walked briskly back.
“It just had to be,” Wharton said. “Winter daren’t let Lading out of the camp. He waited till you’d gone to H.Q., then spun you that yarn about Lading going in Byron’s car. I reckon Lading was already dead.”
“It was I who really killed him,” Travers said. “If I hadn’t let Winter know, he’d have been alive now.”
“You’re being morbid,” Wharton told him. “When Stirrop was dead you had to say something to Winter. It’s Friedemann’s blood I’m after. He probably did the knifing.”
“With Winter at the back of it all.”
“Yes,” said Wharton grimly. “I don’t know if they shoot spies nowadays. I hope they hang them. If they don’t, the next thing Winter will have his back against is a brick wall, with his eyes on a firing-squad.”
It was about half-past nine the next morning when Colonel Caithby rang.
“Your prisoners are to go away tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve just had advance information. They’ll travel under extra escort, but we’ll talk about that later. Can you and Wharton be here at ten hours? The Brigadier would like to see you both.”
Travers was feeling even unhappier than usual as he and Wharton approached Garrison Headquarters that morning. He had slept badly, and somehow, for all Wharton’s pooh-poohing, he could not get out of his mind the idea that in some way he had been responsible for that ghastly business of Lading’s murder. But the Brigadier seemed rather less rigid that morning, and the eyes a little less menacing. He invited the two to sit down, and never once did he interrupt Wharton’s story, or the deft praises of Travers that the old General managed every now and again to insert.
Yet, in that story, as he heard it for a second time, Travers saw a danger. There was something the Brigadier would be bound to notice. Then when the story was ended and the fear had passed, the Brigadier leaned forward.
“Now, Captain Travers, there’s something I have to say to you.”
Travers got to his feet, and to attention. Once more he was looking into those steely grey eyes.
“Doesn’t it strike you that something was radically wrong in your camp that there was never any suspicion of this man Winter?”
It had come, but somehow Travers found himself prepared to put up a fight.
“May I speak frankly, sir?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“Exactly, sir.” He moistened his lips. “Well, sir, what I must say is this. I never had any suspicions of Winter because he was too clever for me. After all, sir, one doesn’t suspect a brother officer who’s already been vetted by the War Office. And also, sir, I was adjutant of the camp, not its commandant. If I’d had suspicions they might not have been acted upon.”
“I see. Well”—he turned to Caithby—“I don’t think I want to detain Captain Travers any longer. Superintendent Wharton, I’d like you to stay for a minute.”
“Very good, sir,” said Caithby, and smiled across at Travers. Travers saluted, and followed Caithby down the stairs and along the passage.
“Well,” he was saying philosophically to himself, “that’s torn it. A day or two and I’ll he transferred to another camp, or else get fired. And I’m damned if I’ll stand for that. I’ll put up some sort of fight. I’m back in this ruddy uniform and they’re not getting it off me.”
“Just come in a minute,” Caithby was saying, the door of his room held open. “Make yourself comfortable. I don’t expect the brigadier will keep Wharton very long.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Travers, and sat down as if on the electric chair. Caithby smiled down at him.
“Between you and me,
the Brigadier’s bark is worse than his bite. I think I told you that once before. I don’t think he’s dissatisfied on the whole. Anything I can do for you myself?”
“Well, I don’t know, sir.” His fingers went to his glasses. “What I would like is seven days’ leave—when this business is cleared up.”
“Good!” said Caithby. “Why not write your application now? If it isn’t passed, I can let you know. Leave the date to be filled in later.”
So Travers sat down at the table and wrote that he had the honour to request, etc., etc. Colonel Caithby said it read all right, and he thought Travers might count on the leave. Travers was thinking that after that leave he would probably never see that cursed camp again, and would be glad enough of it.
“Something here I ought to have shown you,” Colonel Caithby said. “This came in last night, but we knew three days ago.”
He handed Travers the W.O. telegram.
P.W. 003/XY42. Reference your S.A.188 appointment Captain Travers Commandant Number 54 P.W. Camp confirmed STOP Repeated Midland Command.
ADVANCING
“I’m to carry on?” asked the staring Travers.
Caithby smiled. “Looks like it. Oh, and here’s something else might interest you.”
This time it was a copy of Midland Command Orders dated the previous day, and his finger was on para. 993.
Travers saw a list of promotions, headed: To be Majors. There, half-way down the list, was his own name.
Captain L. Travers, with effect from January 23rd.
Travers shook his head. He wanted to say something but the words refused to come.
“Well, it’s not a bad world sometimes,” the Colonel said, as if to himself. Then he was cocking an ear. “This sounds like Wharton.”
The Case of the Murdered Major: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 22
