Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

Wharton dismissed the sergeant and waved Crashaw to a chair. The General’s face was intended to be inscrutable—with a dash of the offhand thrown in. And he resorted to one of his own tricks—wrapping up his meaning in such a spate of words that it would have worried a wiser head than Crashaw’s to see precisely what he was driving at.

  “I won’t insult a man of your intelligence by attempting any sort of bluff,” he began. “I’m here to talk about the murder of Mary Kathleen Ransome, on the morning of January the 3rd last. A good deal depends on certain answers you give to certain questions. Also I’m prepared to give you the official warning about those answers—that they may be used in evidence—but the whole thing’s a matter for your judgment. If I decide to make a charge, that’ll be a different matter altogether.”

  Crashaw watched and said nothing.

  “Your name is Henry Mortimer Crewe. Your aliases—some of them—Charles Mortimer and the Hon. Charles Carewe.”

  Crashaw nodded. At the first name Travers had seen him flush.

  “You have three previous convictions—details don’t matter. You’re now on remand. If you go before the Quarter Sessions you may get three years—or more.”

  “It’ll come to an end,” said Crashaw with exaggerated indifference.

  “It will!” said Wharton curtly. “Only I don’t happen to be interested in the flight of time. The interesting thing is that you’ll be what’s known as a hold on. If, for instance, you’d committed murder, there’d be you—nicely put away inside while the evidence was being collected. I don’t mind telling you we’ve quite a lot of evidence now. But why be precipitate? You’ll be safe—and our principal witness is no longer afraid of you!”

  Crashaw sneered. “I thought you weren’t going to bluff!”

  “You can’t annoy me,” said Wharton. “Mr. Travers will give you some news that will show you whether I’m bluffing or not. Mr. Braishe—we’re being very frank, you see!—has done some foolish things, but not criminal ones. For his own sake, he refused to incriminate you Now he’s changed his mind, because we know—well everything! There’s no longer any need for him to be afraid of you.” Then Wharton made his first gesture. He leaned forward, chin thrust out. “Suppose a witness would swear that Ransome saw you on the night of the murder. Where’d you stand then?”

  Travers was horrified. Wharton had said nothing about that prodigious bluff when they’d discussed procedure. Crashaw, however, was unsettled.

  “But you haven’t any witness! You can’t have!”

  Wharton waved his hand. “That’s to be seen. But, let me tell you, it’s this witness or you; his word against yours. However . . . Mr. Travers has something to say to you about that.”

  “Nothing very pleasant, I’m afraid,” smiled Travers. “Don’t you think, between ourselves, you’ve been made rather a fool of, Crashaw? I’m not going to flatter you. There’s no point in doing that silly sort of thing. You’re what we call a sportsman. You took a risk and you take your medicine. You’re a good sort in many ways, but you’re a fool to yourself. You’ve got a lot of kicks out of this—er—burglary business. It’s given you a thrill. You’ve occasionally thought of yourself as an up-to-date Raffles. But you’re not nearly so clever as that. You didn’t fool Franklin, and—in all modesty—you didn’t fool me; and you’ve been made a tool of by Braishe! Isn’t that right?”

  “It’s a matter of indifference to me either way.”

  “Ah! now you’re sulking. Let me tell you the exact position as between you and Braishe. Your real name isn’t Crashaw. But when we were talking about nicknames the other day at lunch—a subject which was deliberately introduced by yourself—you gave a most ingenious account of your own nickname as derived from ‘Crashaw.’ Therefore that nickname was non-existent! Therefore the conversation was for the purpose of determining the nicknames of the rest of us! And as soon as you knew that Braishe’s nickname was ‘Broody,’ you stopped—and therefore you had your information. We know, then, that during the night you heard Braishe addressed as ‘Broody,’ and you wanted to know who ‘Broody’ was. Thanks to Braishe himself—and I give you my word that that statement is correct—we know whose voice you heard! Shall I tell you, or will you tell us?”

  “You carry on!”

  “Very well. During the night you entered Mrs. Fewne’s room. To put it picturesquely, she stirred sleepily on the bed and said—or whispered—‘Is that you, Broody darling?’ You possibly grunted and backed out of the room. Later you saw a figure, whom you couldn’t identify, enter her room. Mrs. Fewne told Braishe about the visitor. He was scared and came out again sooner than he intended. You—with the eye of a genius for the possible chance—saw the likelihood of blackmail. That explains why you did such a mad thing as to return to the house in the rôle of the Unfortunate Traveller. You decided that a bird in the bush might be worth several in the hand. And that’s why Braishe came to let you out of the attic. Isn’t that so?”

  “Carry on!”

  “Braishe was badly scared, or he’d never have let himself be held up like that. You told him if he let you go, you’d keep your mouth shut about that affair with Fewne’s wife. Braishe agreed—but he let you down! When I told you William had a revolver, that was all bluff. But after Braishe left the attic, he fetched a revolver for William, told him you were the murderer of Mirabel Quest, and instructed him to shoot you point-blank if you tried any tricks. Braishe meant to do you in!”

  Crashaw looked at him queerly.

  “You remember when I was questioning you in the room, after your escape? How Braishe suggested he could look after you for a bit? If I’d gone out, as he suggested, he’d almost certainly have shot you then—in self-defence. Isn’t that true? Can’t you see it?”

  Crashaw still said nothing.

  “Take when the police came,” Travers went on. “You don’t know how galled Braishe was to think he’d given way to you. He’s a person of some standing and importance; you’re a negative quantity—socially. He felt the vulgarity of his position in letting himself be blackmailed by you. The offense wasn’t deadly, and he was ready to come more than halfway to meet the police over a confession—if he thought they knew anything. I give you my word that they do know something. They know everything. They know that Ransome was more of a menace to him than to you. That’s the problem. It’s your life or his. Which’ll a jury believe?”

  Crashaw bit his lip and fidgeted with his fingers.

  “Of course, I realize the position. You gave Braishe your word—and you’ve kept it. You haven’t said a thing. We’ve done all the talking! But this position is a wholly new thing which you hadn’t anticipated. The Ransome Case—”

  “All right!” broke in Crashaw. “There’s no need to go on. Give me your word of honour that what you told me about the revolver is true.”

  “I certainly do. Also I think Superintendent Wharton will let you hear William tell his own story—if you insist. And I tell you, here and now, that it’ll be a case of you or Braishe, and—between ourselves—I’m on your side!”

  “Mr. Travers is right!” said Wharton. “But before we go any further, we want two things from you. Your definite undertaking to put yourself in Mr. Travers’s hands, and your implicit promise to treat what we tell you with the most absolute confidence.”

  “Right-ho!” Crashaw nodded. “You don’t want to know any more about that bedroom business. That’s near enough right, and so is the way I got out of the bedroom. Braishe planned the route I took, but you’ve probably guessed that. All I held over him was the intrigue with that dead chap’s wife. I didn’t know who she was at the time, but it looked promising. If he hadn’t given in, I’d have told him more. I did rather hint at it, as a matter of fact. All I wanted at the moment was to get well clear before the police came, then I intended to blackmail him for a pretty good sum on the strength of what I hadn’t told him. That let me out of the promise I’d given.”

  “Do you know, I’m rather surprised at you, Crashaw!”
said Travers. “A blackmailer’s a loathsome swine.”

  Crashaw nodded. “I know that. But I shouldn’t have done the dirty on him. One decent sum, and I’d have gone abroad—Kenya, probably—and stayed there.” He smiled with a touch of his old chirpiness. “Prodigal’s reform, and all that!”

  Out of the corner of his eye Travers could see Wharton getting restless. Evidence—that was what Wharton wanted, not flippancies. Travers cut Crashaw short.

  “And what was it you really knew?”

  “This. My original entry was to the drawing room, which opens on the loggia. You had it as a sitting-out room, and a window was opened for air. I took a look in and saw it was empty and then got well behind that big settee in the corner—and waited. I got to know about the show being cut short, and people going, and naturally I heard all the noise outside. Then, still later, when everybody’d gone, Braishe came into the drawing room carrying a raincoat on his arm and something under it; what, I couldn’t see. He slipped over to the window, then locked the door. Then he put what he was carrying on a chair; put on the coat; put out the light, then slipped out of the loggia door, which he’d unlocked. I nipped up and squinted out of the window. It was snowing like hell, and all I saw was him going towards the pagoda. In five minutes he was back. He locked the outer door, listened at the other door, then went out of the room. Next morning, when that poor devil Fewne was found done in, I thought quite a lot. I pumped Challis pretty hard, and I soon knew the strong hand I held, since I knew of the intrigue with Fewne’s wife. As you said, I found out Braishe by his nickname.”

  “Do you know what he was carrying, concealed under that raincoat?”

  “I don’t—but it was something he treated with considerable care. Next morning, when there was all that talk about the telephone, I thought it was that—only it didn’t seem the sort of thing one would handle carefully.”

  “It was the telephone—for one thing,” said Wharton. “He made out that Fewne had thrown it out there in the snow. Mr. Travers happened to find it—as you know—and that’s when he guessed things weren’t all they seemed. If Fewne had thrown it there, there’d only have been the morning’s snow on it. Braishe forgot that—or rather, he didn’t know it was going to stop snowing. Hear anything else in the night?”

  “Only what you know. When people started to wander about downstairs I thought I’d better beat it. Then that other business occurred—so I decided to rely on the blackmail possibilities and give the other rooms a rest.”

  “What about the Ransome business? Did you see anything of Braishe at the time?”

  Crashaw smiled. “Surely you’re not trying to catch me out! I knew Ransome was dead—killed, if you like—and that’s all I do know.”

  “I don’t think there was a catch in it!” Travers smiled over at Wharton. “But tell me something. When you told me you hid in a closet in the servants’ corridor, I take it you said that because you wanted to shield Braishe.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t know what you might tell him—and I didn’t want him to know all I knew. . . . Anything else you want?”

  Travers caught Wharton’s eye. “Just this. The worst you’ll get is to be let out on bail. The best will be what Superintendent Wharton can arrange for you with the chief constable. You’ve been charged, and only a court can discharge you. But there are ways and means. There may even be an arranged escape—under surveillance of some sort; say my own. Still, that’s all in the air. We’re standing by you, and that ought to sound good enough.”

  “You sort of hold the string!”

  Travers looked rather annoyed. “Was that . . . necessary?”

  “Sorry! Unpardonable thing to say,”

  “Right. . . . Later on, you’ll get a fresh start, as the padre would say. You’ll come to town and stay where Superintendent Wharton arranges—probably with me, while the scheme matures. If that escape stunt is worked, Braishe will be sure of your bona fides; then, to-morrow morning you’ll begin a blackmail campaign—details to follow. Then, when everything’s over, you can go to Kenya with some money in your pocket—but not Braishe’s!”

  Crashaw frowned. “Put the whole thing straight out. You want me to get Braishe for you. Is that it?”

  “It is!” said Travers. “But I shouldn’t put it like that if I were you.”

  “It’s a job I’m not ashamed to do. Let me tell you in half a dozen sentences the sort of man Braishe was.”

  When he’d finished, Crashaw was looking the least bit ashamed of himself.

  “Of course, it does make a difference . . . and anything I can do, I don’t mind doing. All the same, I don’t think I’d like to be paid. No offence and all that.”

  “Have it your own way,” said Wharton. “Only I ought to tell you it wouldn’t be government money!”

  Crashaw flashed a look at Travers. Travers avoided it. “Don’t you think,” he said to Wharton, “it’d be a good idea if Crashaw rang up Braishe and announced his escape at once? It’d put you in a strong position—and it’d give Braishe his first shock.”

  “Very good idea!”

  “Right-ho, then, Crashaw! Would you mind giving me that Bible on the shelf behind you? Rather grubby, by the look of it!”

  Crashaw looked surprised. “You’re not going to swear me in!”

  “Good Lord, no! Just want to look something up for you—unless you know it.”

  Crashaw handed it over dubiously. “Know what?”

  “Well, we’ll leave it for the superintendent to decide. He’s an authority on the Bible.” He laughed. “What’s it to be, George? The story of Uriah the Hittite ... or ‘Had Zimri peace who slew his master?’”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CRASHAW HAS THE LAST WORD

  SOME days later Travers was sitting in his room, waiting with extraordinary impatience for the arrival of Wharton. Not a great deal seemed to have happened since the morning when they left Levington. Wharton had been delighted with the results of that interview with Crashaw, but though most of the gaps in the evidence had been filled in, there were still sufficient holes for an astute counsel to stick his head clean through.

  Events therefore had been largely governed by patience. Braishe had to be reduced to a state of desperation. He had to be brought to the condition of a bull, harassed by a dozen invisible matadors, so that his rush at the one visible adversary should be so blindly desperate as to be fatal. And there was just another chance—that he’d break down altogether. He might throw in the sponge and give himself up.

  First, then, had come that cryptic telephone message, in a disguised voice, advising the reading of a certain chapter of Kings. “Who’s that speaking?” came Braishe’s voice with an unusual stammer. The chapter and its content had then been repeated; then the receiver had been hung up.

  The following morning, in accordance with the prearranged plan, Crashaw had rung up again. This time he’d announced himself and had made an ironical inquiry about that house at Finchley, together with a comment on the folly of leaving ladders at the disposal of eavesdroppers. He had also requested a telephone conversation for the next day, and had received a number.

  After that, Braishe was shadowed night and day. Wharton watched him like an angler with a trout. Crashaw was beginning to enjoy himself. His next disclosure was what had been seen by Ransome at the station—a perfectly safe guess. Then had come a demand for a further phone appointment for the following day. So things had gone on till Braishe must have wondered if Crashaw was the devil himself. How much he slept those three nights is problematic. Braishe had nerve—Travers knew that—but no man’s nerve was proof against that sort of thing.

  Then came the working up to the climax. Since Braishe had been shown that Crashaw apparently had occult knowledge, and that what he knew was easily proven fact, he could now be given merely hints that doings which he imagined even more hidden were just as well known. Finally Crashaw had come out into the open. He must have a personal interview with Braishe—and he must have
three thousand pounds. He pledged his word, once the money was in his hands, not to return to England again or trouble Braishe from a distance. He must have cash in small notes, and Braishe was informed that any monkey tricks would be disastrous.

  Thereupon Travers had let the strings drop from his fingers and had set to work in earnest. In the presence of Wharton there had been rehearsal after rehearsal, till every possible move of Braishe was forestalled and Crashaw was word perfect. As for the place of meeting, the Melton had been given the preference, since a private house, however secluded, might give rise to suspicions of a plant. The actual room was an end one, and Wharton had arranged for its one neighbour to be occupied—apparently—by a couple of girls who were to be on view at the time of Braishe’s arrival. In that room, however, the dictaphone was installed, with an expert at hand.

  What had happened, Travers was now waiting to hear. Wharton seemed to think that things couldn’t go wrong, even though Crashaw was working on hypotheses rather than actual facts. Travers was not so sure. If one of those assumptions on which Crashaw was working was wrong, would Braishe see the chance to keep his mouth shut? And how would Crashaw stand the test? Would his natural nimbleness of wit cope with a situation which was bound to arise out of something the rehearsed schedule had overlooked? Those were some of the problems that were worrying Travers and setting him to prowling about the room and squinting at the clock and going through all the other spasmodic restlessnesses of a man on tenterhooks.

  And when Wharton did come in, he was all smiles. He even had a joke with the plain-clothes man who carried in the small suitcase. Somehow Travers felt he’d never see a case from the professional point of view. All that interested himself was the case itself; the actual arrest and the final hanging were as repulsive to him as the slaughter of the beast that provided his evening cutlet. Wharton, on the other hand, looked as ghoulishly delighted as an undertaker who has found the perfect corpse.

  “Everything all right, then?” Travers asked.