The Allingham Casebook

by Margery Allingham

  “Poor Gooley,” he went on. “He reported that they were all covered with diamonds! He said he’d never seen such a blaze. And he guessed that all the cheap jewellery counters of Western London must have been cleared. He was certain that the real necklace must have been amongst them, but for the life of him he didn’t know where. He asked if he could pull them all in.” The DDCI spread out his hands. “I wasn’t quite as senior as I am now,” he remarked, “so before answering I asked for the name of the management. When I heard it, I thought twice. The Customs angle was difficult too. They’d help, of course, but if the train was late and the boat was waiting they wouldn’t thank me if I sent ’em on a wild-goose chase. Gooley was by no means certain and being alone he couldn’t watch seventeen girls at once. “We’ll have to pick her out,’ he said to me. ‘Can’t you bring an expert? He could look the necklaces over and pick the right one at once.’”

  Luke rubbed his hand over his forehead and we remembered the heat of the day. “Expert!” he said bitterly. “Anyone who had brains enough to be an expert was out of London that afternoon. I only had half an hour. The old boy and his servants were away in Scotland and it looked as if I’d have to turn it up and let Gooley down. There wasn’t a soul I could produce on the spur of the moment. Then I had a brainwave. ‘Hold it,’ I said to him. ‘I’m coming, and I’ll bring someone who knows most things.’” He beamed at us. “I took mum,” he said.

  “It was quite ticklish work getting her there in time, but she arrived at last – little black hat crammed over her eyes, best coat buttoned up to hide her house dress, second best umbrella for defence. We found Gooley as arranged, by the bookstall. He was sweating with heat and anxiety, and his jaw dropped when he saw who I’d got with me. ‘Is that…?’ he began. ‘Greatest living expert,’ I said hastily. ‘Where are they?’ He pointed to the upstairs tea-room. ‘They’re getting ready to make a move,’ he said, ‘train’s due in ten minutes.’”

  Luke rubbed his hands with remembered excitement.

  “We put mum in,” he said. “Just like putting a ferret down a hole. She went through the glass doors and we stood one on either side. The idea was for her to take sights, spot the real diamonds, and then nip out and tell us. But there was nothing like that. Within a matter of minutes there was the Ma and Pa of a row inside. We hadn’t time to get in. As we moved, a girl came flying out into our arms, making a bolt for it. Seconds later, mum followed, very dignified except that there was a cup of tea all over her where the kid had chucked it the moment she had asked her to take off her necklace.” Luke wagged his head. “Poor mum! She was very pleased with herself until we all four got back to the station, roused the jeweller from Crumb Street, and got him to take a squint through his spy-glass at the kid’s necklace. Net value Five Guineas and he didn’t know how they did it at the price, he announced. ‘Cheer up, mum,’ I said to her. ‘How could you tell diamonds, duck? You never had any except the little black ’un you call your eyes. Besides, it wasn’t as if it mattered. By that time the girl had broken down and come across with the whole story, and I’d got through to Harwich where they’d picked up the real necklace.”

  As he ceased to speak, Mr Campion took off his horn-rim spectacles. “Oh, I see. Mrs Luke picked the girl.”

  The DDCI nodded. “Seventeen lovelies, five others on the staff, and four schoolmistresses who had nothing to do with it,” he announced. “Mum took one look round and picked the only wrong ’un in the room. She’d seen her picture in the sensational Sunday rag she takes. Couldn’t think what the story had been, but she knew it must be a police case because that’s the only news she reads. It was eighteen months before – but she remembered!” Luke chuckled. “All the girls were plastered with fake ice to assist their chum to ‘fool the Customs’. The little thief had lent the real stones to the youngest of them all – a kid of seventeen – so that she could carry the can if there was any trouble. Or that was the idea. However, when mum made her entrance and picked out the real crook, she lost her nerve.”

  Luke glanced at his watch and drank up hastily. “And who shall blame her?” he inquired rhetorically. “Not Charles! Kitchen tiles to be laid tonight or else,” he added briefly. “So long.”

  The Snapdragon and the CID

  “Murder under the mistletoe – and the man who must have done it couldn’t have done it. That’s my Christmas and I don’t feel merry, thank you very much all the same.” Superintendent Stanislaus Oates favoured his old friend Mr Albert Campion with a pained smile and sat down in the chair indicated.

  It was the afternoon of Christmas Day and Mr Campion, only a trifle more owlish than usual behind his horn-rims, had been fetched down from the children’s party, which he was attending at his brother-in-law’s house in Knightsbridge, to meet the Superintendent who had moved heaven and earth to find him.

  “What do you want?” Mr Campion inquired facetiously. “A little pocket conjuring?”

  “I don’t care if you do it swinging from a trapeze. I just want a reasonable explanation.” Oates was rattled. His dyspeptic face, with the perpetually sad expression, was slightly flushed and not with festivity. He plunged into his story.

  “About eleven last night a crook called Sampson was found shot dead in the back of a car in a garage under a small drinking club in Alcatraz Mews, named the Humdinger. A large bunch of mistletoe which had been lying on the front seat ready to be driven home, had been placed on top of the body partially hiding it – which was why it hadn’t been found before. The gun, fitted with a silencer, but wiped of prints, was found under the front seat. The dead man was recognised at once by the owner of the car who is also the owner of the club. He was her current boyfriend. She is quite a well-known West End character called ‘Girlski’. What did you say?”

  “I said ‘Oe-er’,” murmured Mr Campion. “One of the Eumenides, no doubt?”

  “No.” Oates spoke innocently. “She’s not a Greek. Don’t worry about her. Just keep your mind on the facts. She knows, as we do, that the only person who wanted to kill Sampson is a nasty little snake called Krait. He has been out of circulation for the best of reasons. Sampson turned Queen’s evidence against him in a matter concerning a conspiracy to rob Her Majesty’s mails and when he was released last Tuesday he came out breathing retribution.”

  ‘Not the Christmas spirit,” said Mr Campion inanely.

  “That is exactly what we thought,” Oates agreed. “So about five o’clock yesterday afternoon two of our chaps, hearing that he was at the Humdinger where he might have been expected to make trouble, dropped along there and brought him in ‘to help our inquiries’ and he’s been in ever since. Well, now. We have at least a dozen reasonably sober witnesses to prove that Krait did not meet Sampson at the club. Sampson had been there earlier in the afternoon, but he left about a quarter to four saying he’d got to do some shopping but promising to return. Fifteen minutes or so later Krait came in and stayed there in full view of Girlski and the customers until our ministering angels turned up and collected him. Now what do you say?”

  “Too easy.” Mr Campion was suspicious. “Krait killed Sampson just before he came in himself. The two met in the dusk outside the club. Krait forced Sampson into the garage and possibly into the car and shot him out of hand. With the way the traffic has been lately he’d hardly have attracted attention had he used a mortar, let alone a gun with a silencer. He wiped the weapon, chucked it in the car, threw the mistletoe over the corpse and went up to Girlski and the rest to renew old acquaintance and establish an alibi. Your chaps, arriving when they did, must have appeared welcome.”

  Oates nodded. “We thought that. That is what happened. That is why this morning’s development has set me gibbering. We have now two unimpeachable witnesses who swear that the dead man was in Chipperwood West at six last evening delivering some Christmas purchases he had made on behalf of a neighbour. That is a whole hour after Krait was put under arrest. The assumption is that Sampson returned to Alcatraz Mews some time
later in the evening and was killed by someone else – which I do not believe. Unfortunately, the Chipperwood West witnesses are not the kind of people we are going to shake. One of them is a friend of yours. She asked our Inspector if he knew you because you were ‘so good at crime and all that nonsense’.”

  “Good Heavens!” Mr Campion spoke piously as the explanation of the Superintendent’s unlikely visitation was made plain to him. “I don’t think I know Chipperwood West.”

  “It’s a suburb which is becoming fashionable. Have you ever heard of Lady Larradine?”

  “Old Lady ’ell?” Mr Campion let the joke of his salad days escape without being noticed by either of them. “I don’t believe it. She must be dead by this time!”

  “There’s a type of woman who never dies before you do,” said Oates with apparent sincerity. “She’s quite a dragon I understand from our Inspector. However, she isn’t the actual witness. There are two of them. Brigadier Brose is one. Ever heard of him?”

  “I don’t think I have.”

  “My information is that you’d remember him if you’d met him. We’ll find out. I’m taking you with me, Campion. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “My sister will hate it. I’m due to be Father Christmas in about an hour.”

  “I can’t help that.” Oates was adamant. “If a bunch of silly crooks want to get spiteful at the festive season someone must do the homework. Come and play Father Christmas with me. It’s your last chance. I’m retiring in the summer.”

  He continued in the same vein as they sat in the back of a police car threading their way through the deserted Christmas streets where the lamps were growing bright in the dusk.

  “I’ve had bad luck lately,” he said seriously. “Too much. It won’t help my memoirs if I go out in a blaze of no-enthusiasm.”

  “You’re thinking of the Phaeton robbery,” Mr Campion suggested. “What are you calling the memoirs? Man-eaters of the Yard?”

  Oates’s mild old eyes brightened but not greatly. “Something of the kind,” he admitted. “But no one could be blamed for not solving that blessed Phaeton business. Everyone concerned was bonkers. A silly old musical star, for thirty years the widow of an eccentric Duke, steps out into her London garden one autumn morning leaving the street door wide open and all her most valuable jewellery, collected from strongrooms all over the country, lying in a brown paper parcel on her bureau in the first room off the hall. Her excuse was that she was just going to take it to the Bond Street auctioneers and was carrying it herself for safety! The thief was equally mental to lift it.”

  “It wasn’t saleable?”

  “Saleable! It couldn’t even be broken up. The stuff is just about as well-known as the Crown Jewels. Great big enamels which the old Duke had collected at great expense. No fence would stay in the same room with them, yet, of course, they are worth the earth as every newspaper has told us at length ever since they were pinched!”

  “He didn’t get anything else either, did he?”

  “He was a madman.” Oates dismissed him with contempt. “All he gained was the old lady’s housekeeping money for a couple of months which was in her handbag – about a hundred and fifty quid – and the other two items which were on the same shelf, a soapstone monkey and a plated paper-knife. He simply wandered in, took the first things he happened to see and wandered out again. Any sneak thief, tramp or casual snapper-upper could have done it and who gets blamed? Me!”

  He looked so woebegone that Mr Campion changed the subject hastily. “Where are we going?” he inquired. “To call on her ladyship? Do I understand that at the age of one hundred and forty-six, or whatever it is, she is cohabiting with a Brig? Which war?

  “I can’t tell you,” Oates was literal as usual. “It could be the South African. They’re all in a nice residential hotel. It’s the sort of place that is very popular with the older members of the landed gentry just now.”

  “When you say ‘landed’ you mean as in Fish?”

  “Roughly, yes. Elderly people, living on capital. About forty of them. This place used to be called ‘The Haven’ and has now been taken over by two ex-society widows and renamed ‘The Ccraven’ with two Cs. It’s a select hotel-cum-Old-Ducks’ Home for ‘Mother’s Friends’. You know the sort of place?”

  “I can envisage it. Don’t say your murdered chum from the Humdinger lived there too?”

  “No, he lived in a more modest outfit whose garden backs on the Ccraven’s grounds. The Brigadier and one of the other residents, a Mr Charlie Taunton who has become a bosom friend of his, were in the habit of talking to Sampson over the wall. Taunton is a lazy man who seldom goes out and has little money but he very much wanted to get some gifts for his fellow guests – something in the nature of little jokes from the chain stores, I understand – but he dreaded the exertion of shopping for them and Sampson appears to have offered to get him some little items wholesale and to deliver them by six o’clock on Christmas Eve, in time for him to package them up and hand them to Lady Larradine who was dressing the tree at seven.”

  “And you say that Sampson actually did this?” Mr Campion sounded bewildered.

  “Both old gentlemen swear to it. They insist they went down to the wall at six and Sampson handed the parcel over as arranged. My Inspector is an experienced man and he doesn’t think we shall shake either of them.”

  “That leaves Krait with a complete alibi. How did these Chipperwood witnesses hear of Sampson’s death?”

  “Routine. The local police called at Sampson’s home address this morning to report the death only to discover the place closed. The landlady and her family are away for the holiday and Sampson himself was due to spend it with Girlski. The police stamped about a bit no doubt, making sure of all this and in the course of their investigations they were seen and hailed by the two old boys in the other garden. The two were shocked to hear that their kind acquaintance was dead and volunteered the information that he was with them at six.”

  Mr Campion looked blank. “Perhaps they don’t keep the same hours as anybody else,” he suggested. “Old people can be highly eccentric.”

  Oates shook his head. “We thought of that. My Inspector, who came down the moment the local police reported, insists that they are perfectly normal and quite positive. Moreover, they had the purchases. He saw the packages already on the tree. Lady Larradine pointed them out to him when she asked after you. She’ll be delighted to see you, Campion.”

  “I can hardly wait!”

  “You don’t have to,” said Oates grimly as they pulled up before a huge Edwardian villa. “It’s all yours.”

  “My dear boy! You haven’t aged any more than I have!” Lady Larradine’s tremendous voice, one of her chief terrors as he recollected, echoed over the crowded first-floor room where she received them. There she stood in an outmoded but glittering evening gown looking as always, exactly like a spray-flecked seal. “I knew you’d come,” she bellowed. “As soon as you got my oblique little SOS. How do you like our little hideout? Isn’t it fun! Moira Spryg-Fysher and Janice Poole-Poole wanted something to do so we all put our pennies in it and here we are!”

  “Almost too marvellous,” murmured Mr Campion in all sincerity. “We really want a word with Brigadier Brose and Mr Taunton.”

  “Of course you do and so you shall! We’re all waiting for the Christmas tree. Everybody will be there for that in about ten minutes in the drawing room. My dear, when we came they were calling it the Residents’ Lounge!”

  Superintendent Oates remained grave. He was startled to discover that the Dragon was not only fierce but also wily. The news that her apparently casual mention of Mr Campion to the Inspector had been a ruse to get hold of him shocked the innocent policeman. He retaliated by insisting that he must see the witnesses at once. Lady Larradine silenced him with a friendly roar. “My dear man, you can’t. They’ve gone for a walk. I always turn men out of the house after Christmas luncheon. They’ll soon be back. The Brigadier won’t miss his
Tree! Ah. Here’s Fiona. This is Janice Poole-Poole’s daughter, Albert. Isn’t she a pretty girl?”

  Mr Campion saw Miss Poole-Poole with relief, knowing of old that Oates was susceptible to the type. The newcomer was young and lovely and even her back-combed hairdo, and the fact that she appeared to have painted herself two black eyes, failed to spoil the exquisite smile she bestowed on the helpless officer.

  “Fabulous to have you really here,” she said and sounded as if she really meant it. While he was still recovering Lady Larradine led him to the window.

  “You can’t see it because it’s pitch dark,” she said, “but out there, down the garden, there’s a wall and it was over it that the Brigadier and Mr Taunton spoke to Mr Sampson at six o’clock last night. No one liked the man Sampson. I think poor Mr Taunton was almost afraid of him. Certainly, he seems to have died very untidily!”

  “But he did buy Mr Taunton’s Christmas gifts for him?”

  The dragon lifted a webby eyelid. “You have already been told that. At six last night Mr Taunton and the Brigadier went to meet him to get the box. I got them into their mufflers, so I know! I had the packing paper ready too, for Mr Taunton to take up to his room… Rather a small one on the third floor.” She lowered her voice to reduce it to the volume of distant traffic. “Not many pennies but a dear little man!”