The Perfect Murder Case

A Ludovic Travers Mystery

Christopher Bush

• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Year: 2017
• eBook ISBN: 9781911579687
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

I am going to commit a murder. I offer no apology for the curtness of the statement.

An individual taking the name ‘Marius’ boasts in a series of letters that he will commit the Perfect Murder, daring Scotland Yard detectives to catch him if they can. Ex-CID officer John Franklin and the amateur but astute detective Ludovic Travers will need to draw conclusons from a soiled letter, a locked room murder, four cast-iron alibis, and trips to France, in a feverish search for the killer and proof of his misdeeds—before ‘Marius’ can strike again.

The Perfect Murder Case was originally published in 1929. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

“All the points of the good detective story are here … excitement, ingenuity, suspense, crescendo, and a satisfactory conclusion.” Observer

CHAPTER I

BY WAY OF PROLOGUE

A PROLOGUE is often an annoying thing, since it may tell too much or too little. Those, however, that are worth having may be regarded as the cocktail that precedes the really sound meal; those that are not, as the long-winded conversation with strangers that is often the prelude to an indifferent one.

As for this chapter the reader will have to judge for himself. The fact that it has to be apologised for should either make him suspicious of it at the outset or else fairly confident that it would never have been perpetrated had it been avoidable. There are, for instance, one or two things that may be said in defence of its appearance, if not for the manner of its presentation. For one thing you will be spared the trouble, if you get so far, of harking back to the past. You will be able to take the meal in your stride and swallow it in the order of its courses. Moreover, if you are an amateur detective you are forthwith assured that it contains the solution of the mystery or at least its main ingredients are there put before you.

The short episodes which directly preceded the actual murder and which form this prologue are not however necessarily in chronological order. One of them is moreover hypothetical. Nevertheless the facts as described in it must have been so nearly true as makes no difference, and even if the individual actions which compose it are wrong, yet the scene as a whole is not falsely presented.

(A)

Mrs. Wilford must have been a sensible sort of soul. As she kissed her daughter and saw the tear-stains and the redness of the eyes which betokened a miserable three hours in the train she showed no signs of the perturbation she must have been feeling. Indeed she took charge of the situation like a wary and competent nurse. She first possessed herself of the small case and the wicker basket.

“Well, how are you, my dear?” and without waiting for an answer, “Is this all the luggage you’ve got?”

“There’s only one trunk in the van,” began Milly forlornly, and forthwith a porter was hailed. The trunk was on a barrow and before the daughter was hardly aware that she had arrived at Thetford she was in a taxi and moving homewards. But there was a brief expostulation at the expense.

“Mother, you shouldn’t really! We could have waited for the bus.”

“Now, dear; you let me have my own way for once,” replied her mother. “We’ll be home in two ticks and the kettle’s all ready.” Then feeling the urgency for conversation, however inconsequent, “And what sort of weather have you been having, dear?”

But it was when they got inside the small living-room of the tiny villa that Milly broke down. Familiar things and the inevitable rush of memories were too much. Both women had a good cry, and when the daughter finally wiped her eyes it could be seen that she had summoned from somewhere a new fortitude.

“Crying won’t do any good, mother. And there’s plenty of time to see what we’re going to do.”

But over the tea there was no talking of generalities. To the older woman it was still a thing incredible and irreligious that a wife should leave her husband. The situation was cutting clean across a comfortable morality and yet, much as she would have liked to argue on divine injunctions, she realised that the position required some circumspection and must be approached by devious ways.

“What have you done with the flat, dear?”

“Given it up, mother, and sold every stick we had except what I brought with me. If Fred wants to do any explaining he ought to know where to find me.”

The mother thought about that for a moment. “You’re right, dear. A girl’s place is with her mother when all’s said and done.”

“Oh, you might as well know everything,” burst out Milly passionately. “I don’t want to upset you, mother, and that’s why I said Fred and I couldn’t hit it off and were going to separate and I was coming home for a bit.” She flew to her handbag on the dresser and returned as quickly with a letter which she fairly thrust into her mother’s hands. “You read that, mother, and you’ll see for yourself.”

Suppose that you as a detective had examined that letter with scrupulous exactitude, realising that your inferences might mean the difference between life and death. This is what you would have noticed.

The envelope matched the paper which had probably been torn from a block, and hastily if the ragged top were a guide. Both were of poor quality and the pinkish shade indicated lack of taste, expediency or purchase by artificial light. The former was belied by the writing which seemed to have a certain character about it. The place of posting was Holloway and the time stamped showed 7.30 p.m. So jagged was the tear of the envelope that the opener must have been in haste or completely indifferent. The letter must have been pored over many times since one of its creases had become a slit. It had no date and no address. The envelope had however two addresses; the original to Thetford in a man’s hand and a second for re-posting to a London address, this latter in the quavering hand of an elderly woman.

DEAR AGGIE:

I was very glad to get your letter but sorry to hear about your rheumatism. If you take my advice you will on no account do as you suggest; go and stay with Tom’s wife. Stuck down in the mud as it is, Great Oxley is no good for rheumatism and nobody could ever think otherwise if he had any sense. Change of air doesn’t cure all rheumatic cases and so surely one needn’t expect it to be a certainty in yours.

You are not to trouble about me either. I am absolutely all right and doing fine and may have to go abroad on business if I hold the job I’m on. At present I’m only on trial, but when I do see you again the news ought to make a real record if everything doesn’t go wrong in the meanwhile.

The money is to help you out until I see you again. I may be able to send an address some time soon but in any case don’t worry.

In great haste,

With love as ever,

FRED.

P. S.—I expect I shall roll up like a bad penny one of these days when you least expect it.

The perplexity on the mother’s face grew as she read, and when she gave back the letter she could find no words. But her face seemed one unspoken doubt. Then she felt that something had to be said, and in a less tragic situation the naivety of the remark would have been droll.

“But, dear, your name isn’t Aggie!”

“I know it isn’t, mother. And I’ve never had rheumatism or written a letter. Keeping two homes going; that’s what he’s been doing, and put the letters in the wrong envelopes. Just a bit too clever this time.” There was no sign of tears now; nothing but a cold intensity.

The mother laid her hand on her daughter’s knee. “Tell me, dear. When did you see Fred last?”

“You know, mother, when I told you he was looking for a job. He went off that morning and didn’t say where he was going, and then a week after that I got a letter with ten pounds in it and he said he thought he’d got a job but he had to keep quiet about it and there was an address I could write to. Then I thought I’d go to his address instead, and when I went they said they didn’t know anything about him. Then I got another a few days later full of all sorts of rubbish and I couldn’t make head nor tail of it—you know, mother, the first one you sent on from here—and I was so angry I threw it in the fire. That had ten pounds in it too. Then the next was this letter and that had twenty pounds in it. But she didn’t get it!” This last venomous and triumphant.

• • • • • • •

(B)

In the front sitting-room of a villa within a few hundred yards of Finsbury Park Tube Station and on a September evening, two men were engaged in what might have been a serious business conference. Whether it was that the gas mantle had designedly been turned down or that it was faulty could not be said, but whatever it was, the light was uncertain and the drab furnishing of the room could with difficulty be distinguished in the remoter corners.

Of the two men, one had resorted to the most threadbare artifice in the interviewer’s repertory—he had his back to the light. He wore glasses and his moustache was dark and heavy. From what could be seen of him he was an incongruity in that particular setting; his clothes, for instance, were well cut and he wore them with a difference. There was a kind of incisive air about him, and you might almost have persuaded yourself that here was the product of a public school. But then again you might have hesitated. There was something wrong somewhere, though hardly to be placed; a false gesture perhaps or an intonation.

The other man might have been a senior clerk or a shop-assistant of the best type. His grey suit was neat and the black tie gave an air of restraint. His age was probably about thirty, his height slightly under the average, and his figure slim but athletic. At this moment his face was the most arresting thing in the room, not so much because the little light caught it fully as from its deadly seriousness. His eyes were fixed upon the other with such intent that they scarcely flickered. It seemed as if he would catch not only every word but as if the missing of the last syllable might mean everything that mattered. It is to the end of their conversation that we are listening.

The first sentence showed which of the two men was in command, if the placing of the chairs had not already told it.

“As far as you yourself are concerned, Wilkinson, you are perfectly satisfied?” The voice was almost intoned, so monotonous was its level.

The other showed a certain nervousness or maybe eagerness or a desire to please. “Yes, sir; I’m perfectly satisfied, if you are.”

“That’s all right then. I might as well tell you, by the way, that my superior to whom I have to report is particularly pleased with the way you’re shaping. The Secret Service—and always remember this—rarely praises and it never forgives mistakes.”

The other began half-stammeringly to express his thanks, but the voice cut in with a finality that was chilling.

“As you were told, everything is up to you. Now for your new instructions. This is Thursday. You will catch the 9.00 p. m. from King’s Cross for Peterboro, where a room has been engaged for you at the George. Just before ten to-morrow morning you will go to Flanders Road and watch as unobtrusively as you can No. 35. If there leaves it or visits it a tall, thin man of foreign appearance, you will follow him and note his actions. If, however, there is no sign of him by 2.00 p. m. it will be certain that he is not coming. In that case, as soon as it is dusk, you will go to a spot opposite the police station and keep your eyes fixed on the door. Keep both hands in the pocket of your overcoat and act as if you were waiting for a friend. If during the two hours you are there a man or woman asks you for a match and remarks, ‘The matches they sell nowadays are getting worse and worse,’ you will follow that person until you are given an envelope. With it you will return here at the earliest possible moment. If not, you will repeat the procedure the next two days and if still unsuccessful will return by the 7.25 p. m. on Monday. Repeat, please.”

The instructions were repeated, and from the amazing correctness of the repetition one could have been certain it was not the first time such a performance had been gone through.

“In the room are the bag and the suit you will wear. Retain gloves as last time. Repack the bag and leave it locked.” From a pocketbook he took a thin wad of notes and told out five. “These are for expenses.” He replaced the balance, and from the bulging contents of the book produced a slip of paper. “The usual receipt, please.”

The other scanned the slip carefully and then signed his name—“Arthur Wilkinson.”

“Anything else before I change, sir?”

“Nothing else, Wilkinson, thank you.”

Ten minutes later there was a further curious ritual.

“Everything in order, Wilkinson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The disc then, please.”

From his hip pocket the other took what looked like a button and passed it over for inspection. On receiving it again he examined it carefully.

“This is not the one I gave you, sir!”

“Good work, Wilkinson!” The button was handed back and the original given in exchange for it was placed in the hip pocket with special care. Then he picked up a small case he had brought from the inner room and moved to the side door.

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Wilkinson, and good luck.” Then came an addition that showed the speaker was really human. “I expect I shall be a good while yet. It’s a good thing you’re not married. Nobody to grumble at your being late for meals!”

The door closed quietly. From his pocket the man with the glasses took a bundle of slips fastened with a rubber band and with them he placed the last receipt. Save for the amounts all were alike in their wording, but the signatures were all different. Yet strangely enough there was about them all something curiously alike.

• • • • • • •

(C)

When they reached the end of the platform Geoffrey Wrentham looked around for Ludo’s car and, not seeing it, for a taxi.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Ludovic Travers, “but I’ve got a job of work I want to do. Do you mind if we walk?”

“Not a bit,” said Wrentham, and then added hastily, “That is if it isn’t a marathon.”

When they were in the straight for Southampton Row, Ludovic explained: “I knew I should be meeting you here and I rather thought you might be interested.” He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a newspaper cutting; then passed it over without comment.

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Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page/About the Book
• Contents
• Introduction by Curtis Evans
• CHAPTER I
• CHAPTER II
• CHAPTER III
• CHAPTER IV
• CHAPTER V
• CHAPTER VI
• CHAPTER VII
• CHAPTER VIII
• CHAPTER IX
• CHAPTER X
• CHAPTER XI
• CHAPTER XII
• CHAPTER XIII
• CHAPTER XIV
• CHAPTER XV
• CHAPTER XVI
• CHAPTER XVII
• CHAPTER XVIII
• CHAPTER XIX
• CHAPTER XX
• CHAPTER XXI
• CHAPTER XXII
• CHAPTER XXIII
• CHAPTER XXIV
• CHAPTER XXV
• Epilogue
• About The Author
• Titles by Christopher Bush
• Dead Man Twice – Title Page
• Dead Man Twice – Chapter I
• Copyright