A review of The Case of the Platinum Blonde

The Case of the Platinum Blonde, the twenty-eighth in Bush’s Travers series, originally published in 1944 and now reissued by Dean Street Press, might easily have had the Conningtonesque title of The Case with the Two Solutions. Our narrator, Ludovic Travers, the horn-rimmed spectacles wearing amateur sleuth, tells his readers at the outset that he is rushing to put the details of the case down on paper as he is on the horns of a dilemma.

While the events that were triggered by the murder of Herbert Maddon in the Sussex village of Cleavesham are resolved to the satisfaction of the local police and George Wharton of the Yard, Travers has an altogether different explanation for the deaths, one which would show that Wharton had missed a glaring and significant clue, thus damaging the reputation of his old sparring partner, and also would have profound societal repercussions. While alerting the culprit to the fact that he knows the truth and, in doing so, receives their tacit admission, Travers is uncertain what to do.

There is a tendency in Golden Age fiction, particularly noticeable in Maigret and Mrs Bradley, for the sleuth to assume the role of the supreme arbiter of justice, often allowing a form of what might be termed natural justice to take the place of judicial justice. Living the rest of one’s life with a guilty conscience and knowing that at least one person knows your guilty secret can be just as hard to bear as being sentenced to die by hanging. Travers too assumes this role, although his stenographer’s suggestion to let the vicissitudes of war allow the culprit to play a form of Russian roulette seems a reasonable way out of the problem. The uncharitable, though, might say to hell with any social consequences and let the wheels of justice turn as they will.

The book raises the question, also seen elsewhere in the genre, as to whether anyone in a particular social stratum could really commit murder, never mind be held accountable in a court of law for their actions. There is a feeling that members of the cloth, senior politicians, aristocrats, and senior public office holders are above the sordid human emotions that often are the spur for murder. This innate prejudice can hamper the outcome of investigations as the two radically different solutions put forward by Bush amply illustrates.

Down staying with his sister while convalescing, Travers is asked by Wharton to find out the identity of a man whose face rang a bell. It turns out to be Maddon to whose door Travers sees the eccentric Augustus Porle pinning a notice warning the occupier that the day of vengeance is at hand and that at 11pm his soul will be required of him. Intrigued, Travers returns to find that not only is Maddon dead but his desk and pockets have been rifled and his corpse savagely kicked by Temple. The room reeks of perfume and cigarettes in the ashtray and hairs on a chair are traced to a platinum blonde, Thora Chavelle, wife of the local Chief Constable. Chavelle steps aside from the investigation, allowing Wharton to descend from the Yard to take over.

The story is one of petty blackmail, marital infidelity, and a frustrated love affair and, seen in this light, it is easy to see who the culprit is and the enormity of Wharton’s mistake. Bush, though, has constructed, as usual, a complex plot which has just enough twists and turns to keep the reader on their toes and while the morality of the outcome might perplex some, it is a tale told with some panache and humour. The complex relationship between Wharton and Travers is an endearing feature of the series.