Mystery Mile

by Margery Allingham

  ‘Spoken, I take it, as a sort of funeral oration?’ said Mr Campion. ‘Let’s have something from the heart.’

  Mr Barber sighed. ‘You are either a very brave man,’ he said, ‘or you are even more foolish than you pretend to be.’

  ‘Pure courage,’ said Mr Campion modestly. ‘I wasn’t going to point it out, but since you brought it up –’

  Mr Barber silenced him with a gesture.

  ‘I am glad that this opportunity has occurred,’ he said slowly. ‘The desire to confide is very strong in a man of my temperament, Mr Campion. I have never before found myself in a situation in which it was safe for me to indulge this particular desire.’

  Campion nodded gravely. The Oriental was fast becoming more and more expansive. He seemed to have grown into a larger, more sophisticated personality than ever before. Now at last it did not seem absurd to connect him with the mysterious figure whose name had been a byword in police circles for so many years.

  ‘I am the only man,’ he said, looking at Campion, a slight hint of pride in his eyes, ‘who ever turned my particular business into something as pleasurable as any other more legitimate concern. That is to say,’ he went on with surprising contentment, ‘I am as safe, as well respected, and as undisturbed as any other man of my wealth. I go where I like, live as I choose. I have a villa with a hanging garden on the Bosphorus, the most delightful of Queen Anne houses in Chelsea. My apartment in New York is one of the loveliest in that most expensive of cities. I have a positive palace in California, and my château behind Juan-les-Pins is famous throughout France. I am an authority on pictures, and I have the finest collection of Reynoldses in the world. My amusements are many. I am a respected citizen in every district where I have a house. I have many friends. And yet’ – he shrugged his shoulders – ‘there is no one in whom I dare confide absolutely. But that is my only disadvantage. For the rest, if I made my money out of oil, motor cars, what difference would it make?’

  Campion appeared impressed. ‘Your business is done entirely through agents, I suppose?’ he said. ‘I can understand carrying it on, but I don’t see how you started it. You are the financier of the show? You buy the brains on one side and the executive power on the other?’

  ‘That is so.’ Mr Barber nodded. ‘It is a great pity, my friend,’ he remarked, ‘that I should have to kill you. I find you quite intelligent. The question you raise is a simple one. My father was the original Simister.’

  Campion stared at him, and for a moment he seemed about to laugh.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he said, ‘you inherited it?’

  ‘Why not?’ The Oriental spread out his hands. ‘There seems to me to be nothing ridiculous in the idea that a man should leave his son a business of this kind any more than any other concern. I never take part in any of my – shall we say? – business transactions, save at the very beginning. My father preserved my anonymity most carefully. When he died I carried on. I do not think that anybody realized that a change had taken place. You see, the organization must necessarily be very scattered and secret. That is how I have preserved my identity.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Campion, whose eyes were dancing. ‘Forgive me, Mr Barber, but have you any family?’

  The old man hesitated. ‘No, there is no one to follow me.’

  ‘Hard lines,’ said Campion sympathetically.

  Mr Barber shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am very much of an individualist, and’ – he laughed confidently – ‘I shall live to be very old.’

  Campion leaned across the table.

  ‘Forgive my asking,’ he said. ‘But what’s to prevent my killing you, as soon as we stop being matey? I mean, when you dot me one, why shouldn’t I dot you one back? Suppose I risk being found with the body? I’m younger than you are, and probably more gifted at horseplay.’

  ‘I do not think you are so well armed.’ There was something terrifying in the calm satisfaction of the tone in which the words were uttered. Mr Barber’s large face was mild and affable.

  ‘Let me explain. In the first place, Mr Campion, I have heard that it was your custom to carry a child’s water pistol manufactured to look like a genuine service revolver. I confess I was amused when I heard this. So amused that I also had my little joke. I too possess a water pistol, Mr Campion. It is at this moment trained directly upon your face. I would like to mention in passing that I am considered a remarkable shot. I did not wish to copy you exactly, however, and my pistol maintains a particularly corrosive fluid. It is not humanly possible to stand up against such a fire, and in your confusion an ordinary bullet will finish you easily.’

  Campion had not stirred, but a muscle at the hinge of his jaw twitched violently.

  ‘I didn’t realize that you’d planned this conversazione,’ he said at last.

  The man opposite him fancied that his tone had lost some of its buoyancy.

  ‘Nor had I,’ he said easily. ‘I had hoped that it would not be necessary.’

  Campion breathed more heavily.

  It was not long after midnight, he guessed. Mystery Mile would not be stirring for another five hours at least. Giles, he felt sure, would obey instructions. The remote chance of anyone’s noticing the lighted hut in the rainstorm was negligible. For once in Mr Campion’s eventful life he was almost subdued.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of boring me,’ he said, with a vigorous attempt at his old flippancy. ‘I love these peeps behind the scenes. Oh, by the way, there is no use wasting your time unduly in bothering the old gentleman, in whose employ I am. The clue he had to your identity was a copy of a child’s book – absolutely harmless in itself – and unintelligible to anybody who didn’t already suspect you. He thought there was a code message hidden in it, and still thinks so. The book is in my pocket now.’

  The Oriental’s eyes regarded him narrowly. ‘Do not have any illusions about my little toy, my friend,’ he said. ‘Stand up. Put your hands above your head.’

  Campion obeyed him. Mr Barber stood up also and from under the edge of the table, where his hand had levelled it, there appeared what was, in the circumstances, the most dangerous-looking weapon Campion had ever seen. It was a small glass syringe. Any doubts he might have had as to the truth of the other man’s threat were instantly dispelled.

  ‘In your left pocket, I see.’ The voice was smooth and almost caressing. With his left hand he removed the book deftly.

  ‘Sit down,’ he went on. ‘Now that we understand one another perfectly our conversation will be so much more pleasant.’

  ‘What little gents we both are,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Tell me, do you do all your murders like this?’

  Mr Barber moved his left hand deprecatingly. ‘I work from my desk as a rule. I know everything: I am behind every coup of any consequence. It was only because Mr Lobbett very foolishly wrote for an art expert that, on receiving that information, I decided to take part personally. I am enjoying the experience immensely.’

  Campion did not reply. Mr Barber continued.

  ‘I was also not very satisfied with my agent, Datchett. I have neglected that little branch of my organization. A man brilliant in his own line, but not a good servant. I ought to have known all about you long ago.’

  The first hint of a smile appeared on Mr Campion’s face. ‘Stupendous!’ he murmured. ‘A sort of departmental store. “Don’t Miss Our Bumper Blackmail Basement. Wholesale Murder, First Floor. Kidnapping and Hosiery on Your left.”’

  Mr Barber was not listening to him. His left hand still rested upon the little green-and-gold-bound children’s book. He tapped it gently with a heavy forefinger.

  ‘It recalls an incident which I had forgotten – an accident of twenty years ago. Coulson was the only man with whom I ever had direct personal dealings. I was comparatively young, and this desire to confide was very strong in me. One day he asked me if I knew the identity of Simister himself – if I had ever seen him. Foolishly, I confessed that I had. Ever afterwards he bothered me for the truth. Frankly, I was
amused by it, and one day I pointed to this book which lay upon the counter of a second-hand bookshop which was his headquarters. I fancy he thought I had brought the book with me. “There is your clue,” said I. I never saw him again. The incident had slipped my memory completely, which shows one, my friend Campion,’ he added with sudden sententiousness, ‘that a foolish act is much more dangerous than an evil one.’

  Campion nodded.

  ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to know,’ he said. ‘What had your friend Datchett got against old Swithin Cush?’

  Mr Barber shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘How should I know?’ he said. ‘A lot of Datchett’s business shocked me. It was so small. That Kettle – he should never have been entrusted with anything. I was ashamed that he should be even remotely in my service.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Campion. ‘I was interested in Swithin Cush, it seemed to me impossible that such a man should have a secret.’

  Mr Barber shook his head. ‘A secret is never impossible,’ he observed. ‘Look at me, for instance.’

  ‘If it’s not being nosey,’ the young man remarked slowly, ‘I should be very interested to know how you intend to get away with your reputation all pure and virgie and our Albert’s poor little mucked-up corp. lying about? I may be crude, but the question of the body has always worried me.’

  ‘That will not be difficult.’ The Oriental spoke confidently. ‘After I had sent the telegram which I knew would bring you here, my agents came down here, waited until the village had retired – and then set upon the servants and drugged them as you found them. They had orders to do that and then remove themselves. I arrived upon the scene immediately afterwards. To them, as to everyone else, I am Fergusson Barber, the art expert. I waited for you, as you found me. What more simple, then? I shall go back, change my boots, which will be necessary after this rain. I shall even drug myself.’

  ‘Don’t forget the footmarks,’ said Mr Campion. ‘They’re very hot on them over here.’

  Mr Barber nodded. ‘I had thought of that,’ he agreed. ‘But you ought to know that to follow footmarks on a saltmarsh is an impossibility. My alibi will be perfect – especially since both Judge Lobbett and young Paget saw me at the same time you did.’

  The Turk spoke quite seriously. ‘I shall have a beautiful Romney as a memento of my visit. It is quite genuine, by the way – one of the loveliest specimens I have ever seen. I shall have it put up for sale, discredited by good authorities – it may be necessary to substitute a copy for that – and sold quite cheaply to one of my agents.

  ‘But the time moves on, my friend. It sounds as if the storm were clearing. Such a delightful conversation – it is a pity that it should ever have to close.’

  ‘Something occurs to me,’ said Campion, looking up. ‘I have just composed my epitaph, you might see if you could get it put over my grave. No vulgar antique lettering either; good Roman Caps. Now listen carefully, because I should hate you to get it wrong.’

  He was speaking with intense seriousness, and the Turk was amused. His veering eyes watched the young man tolerantly, but always he held the deadly syringe ready for the first sign of violence.

  ‘No text,’ said Campion. ‘Just this, neatly and sincerely inscribed:

  Here lie I, poor Albert Campion,

  don’t forget to get the scansion right.’

  He recited the rhyme earnestly, his long thin hand beating out the rhyme on the rough table:

  ‘Death was bad, but Life – was champion!’

  On the last word his voice rose to a note of triumph, and with a gesture of amazing swiftness he swept the lamp from the table, dropping his head sharply as he did so.

  Instantly something soft and horrible splattered over his shoulder, and the acid burning through his clothes ate deep into the flesh beneath, an almost paralyzing agony. The lantern crashed on the floor and, the draught catching it, went out, leaving the hut in complete darkness.

  Campion wriggled towards the gap in the floor boards. It was his one hope. The pain in his shoulder was crippling him. He was terrified lest his senses should give way before it and he should faint.

  In the darkness the man who a moment before had been chatting affably to him hovered, ready to kill.

  Campion found the gap with his foot. Savagely he jerked himself towards it, and at the instant Barber fired. The gun had a silencer on it, but a flash of flame cut through the darkness. The place was too small for there to be a chance for the younger man to escape. The bullet entered his body.

  The Oriental heard the stifled grunt of his victim as he slid helplessly through the opening on the marsh beneath.

  Unaware of this second exit, he fired again, bullet after bullet.

  The silencer was most effective. He had no cause to fear an alarm and he was determined to despatch his man.

  When at last he paused there was an ominous silence in the hut.

  ‘Clever, my friend, clever to the end!’ He spoke softly, but there was a peculiarly horrible satisfaction in his tone.

  Still holding the gun cautiously, he drew a match-box from his pocket, his spent torch being useless. The tiny spurt of flame flickered for an instant, and went out in the draught. He moved to the edge of the gap under the bench and once more struck a match. This time the flame lasted longer.

  Campion lay upon his back on the fast-reddening grass. His spectacles had fallen off and his eyes were closed, his face livid in the momentary light. Just for an instant the Turk hesitated. He had fired five times. There was one shot left in his gun. He debated if he should use it. There was no way of making sure if the man were dead unless he went out to him.

  As he knelt looking down, the little green-and-gold book which he had snatched up in his first rush from the table slipped from his pocket where he had hurriedly thrust it and fell out on to the figure below.

  That decided him. He clambered carefully to his feet and crossed the hut.

  In the doorway he paused, feeling for the steps. He descended carefully.

  Once on the grass he attempted to strike another light, but the rain which was still falling lightly rendered it impossible. He stepped out blindly to the left, unconsciously taking the shorter way round the hut. He took a step forward, then another, the short thick grass still beneath his feet.

  As he took the third step a sudden sense of impending danger seized him, and he tried vainly to swing his weight back. A moment before he might have succeeded, but the turf beneath his feet was slippery.

  He staggered and plunged forward over the three-foot drop of ragged earth into the stretch of slimy mud which lay beneath – that very stretch, paler and smoother-looking than the rest, which Giles had been so fearful of finding not an hour before. Unconscious of the imminent danger, he struggled to right himself, his only fear being that his alibi would be more difficult to establish now that his clothes were soaked with sea water and slime.

  All round him the mud sucked and chattered to itself in its quiet guttural tongue. The rain continued to fall. He was alone between clay and sky.

  He fought fiendishly to escape, realizing suddenly that the slime was past his waist. He beat out wildly with his arms and touched nothing but the foetid stuff. It reached his shoulders, and oblivious of any other danger he screamed aloud, calling upon Campion, straining his lungs until he felt that the village must hear.

  The mud gurgled and spat. Little rivulets of water burst up through it. He slipped deeper; in a moment it must reach his chin. He forced his arms down, an instinct telling him that he might so gain a moment’s respite. The stuff was closing about him, sucking him gently, firmly, and with horrible slowness into its slimy breast. He dared not scream now, lest the very movement should drag him under.

  It was at that second that, far below, his foot touched the hard. He stiffened all over, a new hope returning. The difficulty of breathing was intense; as if it felt itself cheated, the mud pressed him, flattened him with its enormous weight.


  Still, hope was returning, a wild, reckless desire for life, whatever it might bring with it.

  The rain stopped.

  Cramps were racking him, but he dared not relax the muscles that alone held him above the morass.

  Far over his head the clouds parted. The tail end of the storm which had passed over them had dispersed itself. It became a little lighter.

  He stared ahead of him. His eyes strained out of their sockets. His face was distorted, his mouth gaping, the veins standing out in great ridges under his pallid skin.

  Not a foot away from him was a thick white line, irregular, more terrible, more relentless than the mud itself, the tide.

  He watched it. Every spark of life that was left in him concentrated against this last and most dreadful foe. It retreated a little way, only to rush forward again within an inch of his face, splashing him with brine.

  He forced up every fighting nerve that was in him. His frenzied scream startled the wild birds, and echoed, a cry of death, into the silent rooms of the Manor itself, acres distant across the saltings, and died away hollowly in the stillness of the early morning.

  The waves retreated once more, and this time returned frothing, laughing, smothering over his mouth.

  28 Moral

  ‘TWO TEETH?’ SAID the man from Scotland Yard with contempt. ‘He’s got seven. Three at the bottom, four at the top. Mary and I are crazy about him. You’ll have to come round and see him as soon as you can get out again.’

  He was sitting forward in the big chair, before one of the first of autumn’s fires, in the flat at Bottle Street.

  ‘I’ll come down next week. I’m all right now.’ The slightly high-pitched voice was more hollow than it had been, but it had not lost that suggestion of exuberance which had always been its characteristic. Campion was almost completely hidden in the depths of his high-backed Toby chair. Only now and again when the firelight flickered did the other man get a glimpse of his face. It was still desperately haggard from his long illness. All Barber’s bullet had pierced his lung and the mending had been slow. But his old sparkle had returned and his eyes behind his horn-rimmed spectacles were once more amused and very much alive.