Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  Wharton beamed. “He stepped clean into it—and he ended with a faux pas!” He gave a peep into the case. “Better see these disks are in the right order. Your machine all right? Splendid! Get your earphones on, and we’ll make a start!”

  In a way it was like listening in to a wireless play, with the acting uncannily direct, gaunt, and yet curiously nervous. There was a tension that even the dictaphone hadn’t missed. First, out of the buzzing, noises of the room could be picked up—shuffling, crinkling of papers, a low cough; then the faint sound of voices . . . and feet . . . then the opening of a door.

  “Morning, Braishe! Rotten morning! . . . Come along in! Let me take your coat! . . . Have some beer!”

  “No, thanks. . . . Why are you staying here?”

  “Because I’m supposed to be an invalid who mustn’t show his face out of doors. By the way, you haven’t come here with any—er—lethal designs on me? If you have, you’ll be remarkably sorry. I spent most of yesterday writing a couple of letters—details of what we’re going to discuss. If I’m not alive in an hour’s time, they’ll be posted: one to Scotland Yard, the other to Tommy Wildernesse.”

  “What’s Wildernesse got to do with it?”

  “You’ll hear that in a minute. The important thing just now is whether you’re going to be sensible; I mean—if you don’t mind me being crude—whether you’ve brought the money. . . . You look a bit peevish! Er—won’t you take your coat off? It’s a bit stuffy in here.”

  “I suppose you realize”—Braishe’s voice was absurdly stilted—“that I haven’t the least idea of complying with that damned impudent demand of yours. The law protects . . . anybody against blackmailers!”

  “That’s right! So it does! You mean you’ll be described as Mr. A or Mr. B . . . and of course nobody in court will recognize you!”

  “Exactly!”

  “Of course you realize you’ll have to say exactly why I tried to blackmail you. That’d be awkward . . . for you!”

  (A pause.)

  “What’s beyond that wall?”

  “Air, my dear chap—air! Have a look round the room. You surely didn’t think I’d have a confederate! You’re going to give me the chance of a lifetime. You’re my Little Nugget gold mine. Do you think I’d let anybody in on the ground floor of a proposition like that?”

  “Well . . . spill it, Crashaw . . . if that’s your name. What do you think you’ve got hold of?”

  “Ah! that’s better! What have I got hold of? Well, you’ve had specimens! . . . You don’t mind me referring to my notes? First of all—speaking to a man of genius like yourself—may I say that in my own line I’m a genius too? I’m an artist. Just as you’ve got to choose the likely out of a mass of very unlikely, so I’ve got the gift for summing up a situation. That’s why I knew Little Levington Hall was a gold mine. That’s why I’ve invested my time and my small capital in working this thing out. That’s why I could afford to take my time while that rather humorous detective—the elongated Travers—was groping about in the dark. That’s why I risked a short term of imprisonment by coming back to the Hall that morning, when I might have made a clear getaway. That’s why I took steps—if I were taken to Levington jail—to have a friend on the spot. You’ll pardon the boasting!”

  “Get on with it!”

  “Quite! Well, you’ll admit that results haven’t been any too bad. I’ve told you all the ‘Ivydale’ business. Would you like to hear any details—what you were talking about in the seclusion of the bedroom, for instance? That little bit about—”

  “That’ll do, Crashaw. Keep your filthy tongue—”

  “You sit down! Try and lay your hands on me, and it’s the last thing you’ll do. . . . Then you’ll take my word for all that? You’ll agree that I might have been trying to break into that house when I overheard what I did? And I might have followed you back to town and later on to Levington as a consequence? And I might have kept an eye on the lady at the same time? You look rather incredulous! You don’t see how I could have been in two places at the same time! . . . Well, suppose Ransome was a friend—confederate, if you like—of mine. That makes you think! ... You don’t feel like talking about it? . . . What shall we talk about then? . . . Oh! I know—Charles!

  “By the way, you mustn’t ask me how I got to know all the things I do know. As far as you’re concerned, the chief thing is that I know ’em! All sorts of people talked to me. Challis babbled away like anything. Travers and your uncle-in-law talked away at the tops of their voices, and so on. However, as I was saying, the thing is that I know what I’m talking about—and if you force my hand I’ll say what I know, on oath.”

  “The oath of a burglar!”

  “If you like. But a burglar who’s not in danger of hanging! Now, where were we? Oh, yes, at Charles. As soon as his name was put up to you as the burglar—and because he had a foreign intonation—you began to think a bit. You wondered something that’d never occurred to you before. Was he genuine? or had he got himself planted in the house for the purpose of robbery? Then you were scared. Why? Because if he was a crook, then he might have opened the safe. And if he opened the safe, he saw something very remarkable in it! Not the siphon—oh, no! There never was one. What he might have seen was a toy balloon!”

  “Rubbish! Sheer rubbish!”

  “Then why were you so anxious to find out if he could open the safe? You offered him money—so I’m told.”

  (A longish pause—Braishe having apparently no answer.)

  “That reminds me. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention anything about doubting my word. You’d have been in queer street if I hadn’t kept mine to you when the police collared me down there. And you’ll take a note of something else. Everything I’m telling you now, is extra to that promise I made you. . . . However, we’ll leave Charles and the safe. We’ll go on to the time when that suspicious devil Travers wanted somebody to sleep in the pagoda. He had an idea—at least, I should say so—that whoever knew there was anything fishy about that pagoda would be the one to volunteer to pass the night there. I rather thought of volunteering myself, having an idea of what he was driving at—and naturally wanting to protect you who were shortly going to be a customer of mine! Then, like a fool, you fell straight into the trap. Not Travers’s trap—because he hadn’t sense enough to see why you did it—but into my trap. You see, I know just why you offered to sleep there!”

  A laugh. “Really! Most amusing!”

  “Isn’t it! But before I tell you why, we’ll go back to the time when you first devised the scheme—after Challis had outlined to you his ideas of a fancy-dress ball. We’ll simply start at the night of the party. In the general confusion, after the guests had gone, you cut the phones and you got the servants away on various jobs. You also got that toy balloon out of the safe and took it—under your raincoat—to the drawing room. I was there, behind the settee. You then put out the light and went to the pagoda. . . . I was interested—professionally. . . . Shall I tell you what you did then? You threw the phones away over the snow, the receiver, as the lighter, going farthest. You didn’t know it was going to stop snowing! . . . You don’t see the point? Never mind. You will do! . . . Then you went inside the pagoda! Remember it? . . . I see you do!

  “I’ll own up I couldn’t see precisely what you did, but I know what you did. Fewne was sleeping on a low, camp sort of bed, with an old, wire mattress. You got down on the floor beside that bed. I don’t know whether you bent the frayed wires yourself, or merely happened to know they were frayed, but the fact remains that two of the wires were frayed and their short, jagged ends were bent down. Beneath these you put the balloon—and kept it in position with a couple of dead matches. The lamp was over the bed. Everywhere underneath the bed was in deep shadow. Even if he’d seen the balloon, he’d merely have thought it a joke of some kind. Simple, wasn’t it? As soon as he got into bed, his weight sagged down the mattress and the balloon automatically punctured!

  “I said the scheme was si
mple. That’s an understatement. It was a masterpiece. For instance, the mattress couldn’t sag till Fewne got into bed. If he got into bed, it would be to go to sleep. Therefore he’d be found dead with his sleeping clothes on—and apparently of heart failure. If the balloon was found, the finder would shake his head and think it a melancholy souvenir of the ball—placed by Fewne in his pocket and then thrown on the floor. . . . That was how you worked it all out . . . only something went wrong! Fewne was found in a pretty ghastly state. He wasn’t peacefully sleeping!

  “Nothing to say? . . . Well, it takes a good man to know when he’s beaten! But we’ll go on. Next morning various other annoying things happened. Travers turned out to have a flair for inquiry work, so dear old uncle didn’t have the sole say in the matter of the death of Fewne, as you’d anticipated! The horrible position of the body, I’ve already mentioned. Then there was the murder of Mirabel Quest, and that meant police—and Uncle George quite an unimportant person. Still, you had some luck. Travers didn’t see all he might. You were able to move that balloon from under the bed. And Fewne had scattered balloons all over the room. And you slept in the pagoda and managed to hide the siphon—lucky you had an empty one at all!—and turn up or put right those frayed mattress ends.... That all right?”

  (Pause. No answer from Braishe. Travers said afterwards he felt creepy at the sound of that one voice only!)

  “Now Tommy Wildernesse. Where does he come in? That was my masterpiece. Travers wanted some help in the pagoda and happened to call him over. I should say Travers had an idea that you’d a private pipe of some sort which let the lethal gas into the room. At .any rate, he asked Wildernesse—being a young and active chap—to get down under the bed to examine the joint of floor and wall. Wildernesse nearly tore his head on those frayed wires—and he noticed them. Next morning, after you’d ‘discovered’ the siphon, Travers still wasn’t satisfied. He had Wildernesse over to make another search, and once more he went under the bed. This time he went under face up so as to avoid those wires—but they weren’t there! You wouldn’t think him an observant or secretive sort of chap, but he noticed all that—and he didn’t say a word to Travers about it. But he happened to let it all out to me—and there we are!”

  “You mean Wildernesse has the same ridiculous ideas as you have?”

  “Oh, dear, no! Tommy Wildernesse is one of my reserves! Didn’t I tell you nobody was coming in on the ground floor? I know that he knows—and he’ll remember that I know. I mean, when he gets that letter I’ve written him—if you make me send it, of course!—he’ll be a useful sort of chap to have on one’s side. Scotland Yard’ll just love him!”

  A sort of growl. “And you really expect me to take all this seriously?”

  “Well—er—I do! . . . Oh, I see. You think because that pagoda’s burnt down, and bed and balloon with it, you’re going to be safe! Don’t you see that was the worst day’s work you ever did? It wasn’t sentiment that made you destroy that pagoda. If that pagoda had vanished into thin air it’d be evidence against the person who made it vanish.” (Travers here had to imagine the pretended horror of the thought.) “My God! I hope you weren’t such a damn fool as to suggest to the police that you’d like to grub that place up by the roots! If so, you’ve probably torn it!”

  There was the tiniest pause, then Braishe’s voice came like a shot out of a gun.

  “Who killed Mirabel Quest?”

  There Crashaw must have shrugged his shoulders.

  “I never take any interest in what doesn’t concern my particular business!”

  “And Ransome?”

  “Ah! That’s different! If you cut up awkward, I may have to bring that in as a sideline. . . . But talking generally, are you satisfied?”

  There was a long pause, then what might have been the pushing back of a chair.

  “I’m satisfied about one thing—that when you talked about writing letters to people you were putting up a bluff. You haven’t got a confederate! You daren’t have!”

  “Daren’t I? That remains to be seen.”

  “I don’t think so. In any case, Crashaw, I’m prepared to talk sense—to you. I’m not going to lay myself open to this sort of thing from half a dozen people of your kidney. Here’s your cash—on one condition. Own up frankly that you haven’t got any confederates; that those letters were all bluff . . . that you’re on your own in this game.”

  Travers gripped the arms of his chair. He saw the trap—and Crashaw falling clean into it. The pause here was very long, as Crashaw thought things over.

  “Mind you,” went on Braishe’s voice, “I own up to nothing. If I care to spend this money to protect somebody’s name, that’s my business. It’s no use your trying to make any conditions with me. . . . What’s it going to be? . . . The cash—or not?”

  “Pass it over! . . . I’ll own up. I’m a freelance!”

  What happened then was wild confusion. The two voices were intermingled: Crashaw’s in alarm, Braishe’s in rage. There was the movement of feet; what sounded like a scuffle; the voices again; a terrible cry—Crashaw’s voice, surely!—the rush of feet . . . the slamming of a door. Travers gripped the arms of his chair and held on like death—his eyes staring. As the clamour of noises entered his ears and left no explanation his breath was coming in short gasps. Then the needle scratched ... a buzzing . . . another scratch, and the disk ended.

  Travers leaned back weakly in the chair, then took off the phones. “My God, George! What was that?”

  Wharton grunted. “Something we didn’t anticipate. As soon as that young fool let on he was alone, Braishe seized his collar. Then he pulled out a siphon—like the other one. Crashaw yelled like hell and bolted like an eel, leaving Braishe holding the coat by the collar! He moves pretty quick at any time, but I should say he beat his own record. Soon as he got outside, he flopped. Lucky for him Braishe opened the window and went down by the fire escape. Norris was waiting for him at the bottom!”

  “Crashaw all right?”

  “Right as rain. Damn badly scared at the time.”

  “He’ll be coming round here? He promised he would.”

  “He’s coming all right—so he said. When I left him he was off to the bar—for what he called an emetic.”

  Travers smiled queerly. “He’s a curious mixture! . . . Pity Braishe didn’t have a sniff of his own dope!”

  Wharton was horrified. “What! The case of the century—and you the big noise!”

  Travers shook his head—and he looked uncommonly in earnest.

  “If you bring me into that case, George, I’ll let you down as clean as dammit! You’ve got a case without me.” He cocked his ear. “Sounds as if he’s coming!”

  Out in the hall Palmer’s pontifical voice was heard; then another voice which sounded rather like a mild reproach. The voices mingled; then came a tap at the door. Travers instinctively groped for his glasses. Wharton slewed round in his chair. The handle turned, and Crashaw appeared, his face slightly flushed and his expression one of questioning timidity. Wharton nodded at him.

  “Come along in, young man! . . . Feeling better?”

  “Er—yes . . . thanks!”

  That was the Levington voice; the voice of the quiet little fellow who’d talked about nicknames. Travers smiled to himself as he fumbled in the pocket which held his check book.

  THE END

  About The Author

  Christopher Bush was born Charlie Christmas Bush in Norfolk in 1885. His father was a farm labourer and his mother a milliner. In the early years of his childhood he lived with his aunt and uncle in London before returning to Norfolk aged seven, later winning a scholarship to Thetford Grammar School.

  As an adult, Bush worked as a schoolmaster for 27 years, pausing only to fight in World War One, until retiring aged 46 in 1931 to be a full-time novelist. His first novel featuring the eccentric Ludovic Travers was published in 1926, and was followed by 62 additional Travers mysteries. These are all to be republished by Dean Str
eet Press.

  Christopher Bush fought again in World War Two, and was elected a member of the prestigious Detection Club. He died in 1973.

  By Christopher Bush

  and available from Dean Street Press

  The Perfect Murder Case

  Dead Man Twice

  Murder at Fenwold

  Dancing Death

  Dead Man’s Music

  Cut Throat

  The Case of the Unfortunate Village

  The Case of the April Fools

  The Case of the Three Strange Faces

  Christopher Bush

  Dead Man’s Music

  “If you don’t think I’m taking a liberty in saying so, my opinion is that he was knocked down first and hanged after!”

  Ludovic Travers starts an investigation of unnatural death by means of an automobile mishap on a rural road. His associate Superintendent Wharton is investigating a suspicious suicide by hanging at the nearby village of Pawlton Ferris. When the supposed suicide turns out to be a case of murder, Travers realizes he recognizes the corpse, despite attempts to alter the dead man’s appearance. The plot is thickened by a strange letter sent to Travers by the eccentric and musical Claude Rook. As Travers and Wharton are drawn further into the investigation of the murder, they begin to fit more and more pieces into a weird puzzle, unlocking the strange secret of the dead man’s music.

  Dead Man’s Music was originally published in 1931. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  Chapter One

  WHEN BEGGARS DIE

  The garment of his new directorship of Durangos, Limited, sat so tightly on Ludovic Travers that he was not venturing as yet on week-ends that lasted longer than the Friday afternoon till midday on Monday. On this particular Monday morning he was earlier than usual: it would be about ten-thirty when he passed through the village of Pawlton Ferris. His man Palmer was sitting alongside him and the Isotta was doing no more than a lazy twenty, when the accident nearly happened. Altogether it was incredible—according to Travers himself. Never in his life had he mooned at the wheel. The fault indeed was traceable ultimately to his publishers.