Tubby Bream sat forward in his chair, his plump face even more pallid than before.
“Yes, Mr Campion.”
“Margaret Buntingworth was the only child of her parents,” Mr Campion continued, still with the same weary exasperation. “So, any noisy, middle-aged gentleman who comes roaring round here, moaning about his old home, is bogus, my poor friend. He’s just another practitioner like yourself, working up to a loan or a dud cheque or whatever piece of fancy work is his particular speciality. In fact, you’ve been done. Now are you grateful?”
Bream’s jaw tightened. “But Sellers…” he began.
Mr Campion was derisive. “I saw Sellers in Monte Carlo,” he said, “and believe me he wouldn’t deceive a nursemaid. No; your overseas pal saw Sellers on the boat, recognised a weak brother with capital, and played him for a sucker, trusting to match his wits against yours when the time came. Better face up to it.”
Bream rose to his feet and walked slowly down the room. He looked a dangerous little customer with his heavy shoulders and short, powerful arms. It was evident that he was going over Campion’s arguments in his mind and was finding them unpleasantly convincing.
Suddenly, however, he swung round.
“No, you don’t, Campion!” he said sharply.
The young man withdrew his hands from the ankle bonds and looked unwaveringly into the muzzle of the little Colt.
“All right,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But frankly, I don’t see the point of all this. What are you going to do, exactly? In view of all the facts, I mean.”
“Find out if you’re right.”
“And when you discover that I am?”
The man laughed.
“Then I shan’t waste my time any longer, of course,” he said. “We shall clear out. Unfortunately, I can’t trust you to keep your fingers out of my affairs, so naturally you’ll have to stay behind. It’s a cold house, I know, but you’re tough. I should think you’d be alive when they find you.”
Mr Campion looked incredulous.
“But that’s suicide on your part,” he said. “Scotland Yard know I came down here to look for you. They’ll get you if I die, Bream.”
The man in the neat dark suit spread out his hands.
“It’s a risk I shall have to take,” he said. “I may leave word for a village woman to come and clear up on Monday. If she’s conscientious – well, you’ll only have had four days of it.”
Campion sat stiffly, staring up at him. His pale eyes looked furious and Bream was amused.
“My dear wife says that there are rats in the outer kitchen,” he began. “Of course, they’ll cling to you for the warmth. But they’re companionable little creatures if they’re not hungry.”
His voice changed again and for a moment he showed the anger which was consuming him.
“If you’re right, I hope they start in on you,” he said. “Hullo, the thought’s too much for you, is it?”
Mr Campion’s eyes had closed and now he swayed violently and slumped down upon the stones, his face pallid and his mouth loose. Bream advanced cautiously to kick the inert body in the ribs. It rolled lifelessly, and the man laughed.
Slipping the gun into his pocket he stepped forward and bent down to raise his victim’s eyelids. Because of his bulk, he had to kneel to do so, and as his body swung down, a hand as delicate as any pickpocket’s moved quietly, and Mr Campion’s long fingers closed gratefully over the little gun.
“Get back. Shout and I’ll plug you.”
The vigorous voice startled Bream quite as much as the sudden movement, which brought his adversary up on one elbow, the revolver levelled. He darted backwards, and Campion grinned dangerously as the startled figure flattened against the panelling of the opposite wall.
“Of course, there’s no earthly reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” he observed affably. “I’ve got a bona fide self-defence plea. That’s where I’m one up on you. Stick your hands up and come away from that bell.”
Bream did not hesitate.
“I was getting at you, Mr Campion,” he said huskily. “You brought me a bit of bad news and I dare say it made me angry.”
“Well, make up your mind.” The man on the floor was aggressively pleased. “Is this your idea of humour or ill temper? Don’t move!”
The final admonition was occasioned by a wholly unexpected development. The front door at the other end of the hall was moving furtively. Campion kept his gun turned on Bream.
“Now go over,” he whispered. “I’ll shoot, remember.”
Obediently the crook edged towards the widening door, his arms raised. From his place of vantage on the floor Mr Campion had an excellent view of the ensuing scene. Over the threshold, stepping gingerly to avoid making a sound, came a red-faced, white-haired stranger who stopped in his tracks, not unnaturally, when confronted by the spread-eagled Bream.
“Beg your pardon,” he ejaculated, his bright eyes widening and his face burning with embarrassment. “Ought not to have come bargin’ in again like this. Very foolish of me.” He cleared his throat noisily. “Tell you what happened. Matter-of-fact, was nearly in Ipswich when it came to me I wanted to clinch the deal. Came back, came up to the door, saw it wasn’t latched and couldn’t resist the impulse to come in like I used to thirty years ago. Good God, man, don’t stand lookin’ at me like that. What have you got your hands up for?”
“Oh, my hat. The colonial,” murmured Mr Campion wearily.
Bream was quick to seize the advantage.
“Look out!” he shouted and leapt behind the bewildered visitor for the open door.
Campion fired but, avoiding the newcomer, the shot went wide and splintered the woodwork of the door frame.
“God bless my soul!” The stranger peered into the shadow of the hall and suddenly perceived Campion still sitting on the floor. “Firin’?” he demanded. “You can’t do that here, man. Get up and fight like a Christian. Oh, I see, tied you up, has he? What are you doin’? Burglin’? Put that gun away.”
This matter-of-fact reaction to what must have seemed, to say the least of it, a remarkable situation had a profound effect upon the young man. The newcomer was such a perfect specimen of his type that to doubt his integrity seemed comparable with the suspicion that the Nelson monument was built of plaster.
“I say, is this really your old home?” he heard himself saying stupidly.
“Certainly. Best years of my life were spent in this house and I hope to die in it. Don’t see what the devil it’s got to do with you, though. Got him, Sacret?”
He spoke a moment too soon. Bream, who had been creeping up behind Campion from the inner doorway, had not quite reached his goal. Campion swung over just as the man leapt. The gun shot out of his hand and slithered across the stones towards the stranger. Bream was after it instantly, but Campion gripped him by the lapel and they rolled over together.
“Pick it up!” he shouted, trying to put authority into his voice. “Pick it up, for the love of Mike! This chap’s dangerous.”
The rest of his appeal was choked as Bream’s hands found his throat. His blunt fingers dug into his neck and he found himself weaken.
“Look out, man, you’ll kill him!” The stranger’s vigorous voice echoed through the room. “Stand up, sir! I’ve got you covered. What are you doin’, damn you? The feller’s tied.”
The shocked astonishment in the last phrase had its effect. The fingers relaxed their strangle-hold and Bream staggered to his feet, his puffy face twisted in a depreciatory grimace.
“I’m afraid I forgot myself,” he said. “He frightened me. I’ll take the gun, shall I?”
“No!”
Campion’s croak was frantic in its appeal and the stranger stepped back.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “Keep your distance, sir. Untie the feller’s legs. Like to have this all made clear, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, come now, really.” Bream had gone back to his old ingratiating manner. “This is
my house, you know.”
“Lying,” whispered Campion again. “Don’t let him have the gun.”
“Not your house, eh?” The newcomer seized the suggestion with interest. “Hang it, whose house is it? Must get that straight. Explain yourselves, both of you.”
“All in good time.” Bream was edging forward. “I’ll just take the gun first. They – they are such dangerous things.”
“The devil you do! Stand back.” The old man was showing remarkable spirit. “This fellow here has made a serious allegation and I’d like it properly refuted. Frankly, Sacret, there were one or two things you said this afternoon which made me wonder. Do you know you pointed out the old walnut on the lower lawn and told me there were fine pears on it last year? At the time I thought it was a slip of the tongue, but now I’m beginnin’ to look at it in a different light.”
Bream drew back from the revolver.
“This is an outrage,” he said feelingly. “Holding up a man in his own house.”
The newcomer’s bright blue eyes snapped suspiciously.
“Who’s house is it?” he demanded, his voice raising. “For the last time, sir, who owns this house?”
“I do, I’m afraid. Is anything wrong?”
The pleasant voice from the doorway behind them startled everybody. Margaret Buntingworth, followed by Jane, Rose and Alice, to say nothing of a taximan with the luggage, trooped into the hall. Margaret was weary, dishevelled and utterly charming, the complete mistress of any situation.
The stranger thrust the gun behind him and stepped back. Bream gaped helplessly, and Mr Campion perforce remained where he was. Margaret caught sight of him and paused in the act of removing her travelling coat.
“Oh, Albert,” she said, “how very nice of you to be here! I didn’t see you at first down there. I got your telegram, my dear, and we packed up and came home just as soon as we could. What on earth are you doing? Your ankles… Dear me, is something going on?”
She turned to face the others, passing over Bream, who evidently meant nothing to her, and came face to face with the stranger. The man stared at her for a moment, grew an even more virulent crimson, and finally uttered a single strangled word.
“Meggie!” he said.
Margaret Buntingworth dropped her coat, her gloves, and the rolled travelling rug, which contained the two half litres of eau-de-cologne she had smuggled so successfully through the customs. Her little scream was an expression of pure delight.
“Morty!” she said. “Oh, Morty, my dear boy, how you startled me!”
Mr Campion bent forward and began to untie his ankles. He looked up at Bream.
“Twenty-four hours,” he said meaningfully. “And it’s a great deal more than you deserve.”
The man glanced at him and nodded. His face was blank. Without a look behind him, he made for the inner door.
As Campion scrambled painfully to a chair Margaret came over to him, dragging the newcomer behind her.
“Isn’t this all wonderful?” she said, her eyes dancing. “Morty says you two haven’t actually met yet. My dear, this is Morty himself. I haven’t seen him for years and years and years. He used to live in a cottage down by the plantation and we used to play together up here when we were kids. He was the cleverest boy in the world. I cried my eyes out when he went away. He always promised to come back and buy the old house for me but, of course, I never believed him. Neither of us wrote, of course. You know how it is. And now here he is! Morty, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“I’ve never forgotten you, Meggie.” The stranger seemed suddenly overcome with shyness. “Matter-of-fact I came down here in the hope – in the hope —” He coughed, blew his nose and steered away from a dangerous subject. “Upset me to see that chap in possession,” he remarked. “Where is he, by the way? Somethin’ very funny was goin’ on here just now, Meggie. We’ll have to have an explanation from you, young feller. I’m completely in the dark. Where is that man, Sacret?”
“Oh, the Sacrets!” Margaret remembered them with consternation. “I forgot all about them. You put them clean out of my head, Morty. I’ve let the house. I ought not to be here if everything’s all right. What has happened, Albert? Where are the Sacrets, dear?”
Campion ceased to massage his bruised ankles.
“If you listen,” he said, “you’ll just hear their car going off down the drive. I should forget ’em, if I were you. Something tells me that neither of us will hear of them for some considerable time.”
Margaret frowned and gave the subject up as being too difficult.
“Perhaps if we all had some food and something to drink?” she suggested. “Food helps the brain so, don’t you think? After we’ve eaten you two boys must tell me all about it. Morty, can you draw a cork?”
“Comin’, me dear.” The stranger strode after her, regaining his youth at every step.
Mr Campion rose stiffly to his feet and practised walking.
Much later that evening the two men sat before the fire in the big shabby drawing room. Margaret had gone to bed after an orgy of remembrances. Morty glanced round the room affectionately.
“Just as I remember it,” he said. “Foolish of me to confuse everybody by callin’ it my old home. Had always thought of it that way, you see.”
Mr Campion looked into the fire.
“Thinking of buying it?” he inquired.
The elder man cocked a bright blue eye in his direction.
“Well,” he said evasively, “I’ve found just exactly what I was lookin’ for, don’t you know.”
Is there a Doctor in the House?
If Detective Constable Macfall had been a man with charm about him this story would have been too tragic to relate and as it is, with him the thickest dunderhead God ever put breath into, it has an element of great sadness.
On what was surely the most unfortunate day in his whole existence he was walking down the narrow city street, pleased and proud of himself as he usually was, for his remarkable gift gave him always a feeling of delighted astonishment that he was so much more powerful than anyone else. He was not exactly thinking about his accomplishment as he strode along, for he had possessed it so long that the thing was a common place with him, but he was reflecting how splendid it was that he had it and how the police could hardly fail to promote him fairly soon. His gift was indeed a remarkable one and the police doctor, who was of an inquiring mind and did not like wonders, had made him display it again and again without satisfying himself about it. Something must be double-jointed, but he said he was darned if he saw what.
The fact was that the slender Detective Constable Macfall was able, by some trick of muscle, leverage, or mysterious power as yet unknown to science, to put any other man, up to twice his own weight, neatly upon his back upon the floor. He did not know how he did it and nor did anybody else. Experts, and the Metropolitan Police of London is a body which is no shorter of those than is any other authority, rose irritably from the CID room floor and said “Oh, Judo, of course. An interesting throw!” and went off sulkily, talking of something else. Macfall would swell a little and grin and mention that he never drank or smoked either. It had gone through his mind once or twice, in the vague way that one speculates about the outcome of nuclear fission, or the eternal mysteries of life and death, that it was astounding that he was not more popular. But the question did not bother him. Why should it? Who cares if a man likes you or not if you can put him on his back and keep him there?
On the whole Macfall got along very well without popularity and on that fateful day when he was walking along Old Soot Lane, which is one of the few remaining shopping centres in that corner of business London, he was as happy as it is reasonable to suppose a human bulldozer can be.
It was at this point that Mr Mevagissy, the manager and proprietor of one of those minute jeweller’s shops whose size of premises has nothing to do with the size of their prices, popped out of his dusty but elegant doorway and beckoned to Macfall, whom he knew sli
ghtly.
Innocent and proud as the day he was born the Detective Constable went across.
Mr Mevagissy, who was an elderly gnome of a man, neat and prim looking with the mouth of a worrier or a string bag, was in something of a tizzy.
He had nothing to complain of, he said, but it was odd… Didn’t the constable think it was odd? The man wasn’t in the book, not a sign of him in the medical register. But that was not the affair of Mevagissy and Company, was it? Or was it? A firm couldn’t be too careful, could it? What did the Detective Constable think?
Macfall, who never thought at all, according to the best authorities, appeared completely befogged and Mr Mevagissy hastened to make himself clear.
A customer had come into his shop that morning, he explained, and had left a large old-fashioned silver salver to have an error corrected in the engraved inscription upon it. It was not a very valuable piece in the jeweller’s opinion and he mentioned that it was the kind of item which could be picked up fairly cheaply in any of the silver auctions in the city, any day of the week. The inscription upon it was to the effect that it was presented to Dr Phinias P Roup MD, etc, etc, on the occasion of his marriage by his grateful pupils and the nurses of St Jude’s Hospital, Trinidad. The customer had explained that he was the Dr Roup in question and that he had just noticed that his second initial was given as P. and not B. He asked Mr Mevagissy to have the trifling matter put right and arranged to call for it at noon that day week.
Mr Mevagissy had accepted the small commission without any surprise at all. As he told Macfall the frequency with which the donors of presentation plate make errors in their instructions to the engravers had long ceased to astonish him. There was probably some deep psychological reason for it in his opinion, he said, but he wouldn’t bother Macfall with that. However, later, when he was wrapping the salver to send it round to the back-street engraver who did that sort of work for him, he noticed that the design of the piece of lettering was not quite symmetrical, and that did astonish him for that is not the sort of mistake engravers ever make.
The Allingham Casebook Page 15
