Mr Campion & Others

by Margery Allingham

  Mr Campion was silent for some time.

  ‘It was funny, her shouting out like that in the Hotel Monde,’ he said at last.

  The chief grunted. ‘Mrs Gregory,’ he said. ‘Yes, I heard about that. A little show for Blower’s benefit, if you ask me. Thought she’d give him something to think about. The Borringers are like that, cocky as hell.’

  Once again there was thoughtful silence in the light airy office and this time it was Stanislaus Oates who spoke first.

  ‘Look here, Campion,’ he said, ‘you and I know one another. Let this be a word of friendly warning. If you suspect anyone you know of getting mixed up in this – for a bit of fun, perhaps – see that she’s careful. If The Sparrow and his wife are still tied up with the Meyer lot – and they very well may be – the Meyer crowd aren’t a pretty bunch. In fact, you know as well as I do, they’re dirty and they’re dangerous.’

  His visitor picked up the list again. Philip Graysby’s aunt’s name headed the second column. He made up his mind.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ he said. ‘I’m speaking entirely from guesswork and I rely on you to go into this in stockinged feet with your discretion wrapping you like a blanket. But if I were you I should have a little chat with one Henry Swan, employed by Florence, Dowager Countess of Marle.

  ‘Ah,’ said the chief with relief, ‘that’s where the wind blows, does it? I thought you’d come across.’

  ‘I don’t promise anything,’ Campion protested. ‘Who does?’ said Stanislaus Oates and pulled a pad towards him …

  Mr Campion kept late hours. He was sitting up by the open window of his flat in Bottle Street, the cul-de-sac off Piccadilly, when the Chief Detective-Inspector called upon him just after midnight on the evening of his visit to Scotland Yard. The policeman was unusually fidgety. He accepted a drink and sat down before mentioning the purpose of his visit, which was, in fact, to gossip.

  Campion, who knew him, let him take his time.

  ‘We pulled that chap Swan in this afternoon,’ he volunteered at last. ‘He’s a poor weedy little beggar who did a stretch for larceny in twenty-three and seems to have gone straight since. We had quite a time with him. He wouldn’t open his mouth at first. Fainted when he thought we were going to jug him. Finally, of course, out it came, and a very funny story it was. Know anything about the White Elephant Society, Campion?’

  His host blinked. ‘Nothing against it,’ he admitted. ‘Ordinary charity stunt. Very decently run, I believe. The dowager does it herself.’

  ‘I know.’ There was a note of mystification in the chief’s voice. ‘See this?’

  From his wallet he took a small green stick-on label. It was an ornate product embellished with a design of angels in the worst artistic taste. Across the top was a printed heading:

  This is a gift from the White Elephant Society (Secy, Florence, Countess of Marle) and contains – A blank space had been filled up with the legend: Two Pairs of Fancy Woollen Gloves in ink. The address, which was also in ink, was that of a well-known orphanage and the addressee was the matron.

  ‘That’s how they send the white elephants out,’ Oates explained. ‘There’s a word or two inside in the countess’s own handwriting. This is a specimen label. See what it means? It’s as good as a diplomatic pass with that old woman’s name on it.’

  ‘Whom to?’ demanded Mr Campion dubiously.

  ‘Anyone,’ declared the chief triumphantly. ‘Especially the poor chap in the customs office who’s tired of opening parcels. Even if he does open ’em he’s not going to examine ’em. Now here’s Swan’s story. He admits he found the jewellery, which he passed on to a friend whose name he will not divulge. That friend must have sent it to you. It sounds like a woman to me, but I’m not interested in her at the moment.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ murmured his host devoutly. ‘Go on. Where did he find the stuff?’

  ‘In a woollen duck inside one of these White Elephant parcels,’ said the chief unexpectedly. ‘We’ve got the duck; home-made toy with little chamois pockets under its wings. The odd thing is that Swan swears the old lady gave the parcel to him herself, told him to post it, and made such a fuss about it that he became suspicious and opened it up.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Mr Campion was grinning and Oates frowned.

  ‘I do,’ he said slowly. ‘Curiously enough I do, in the main. In the first place, this chap honestly wants to go straight. One dose of clink has put him in terror of it for life. Secondly, if he was in on the theft why give the whole game away? Why produce the duck? What I do think is that he recognised the address. He says he can’t remember anything about it except that it was somewhere abroad, but that’s just what he would say if he recognised it and thought it was dangerous and was keeping quiet for fear of reprisals. Anyway, I believed him sufficiently to go down and interview the old lady.’

  ‘Did you, By Jove!’ murmured Mr Campion with respect.

  Stanislaus Oates smiled wryly and ran his finger round the inside of his collar.

  ‘Not a homely woman,’ he observed. ‘Ever met someone who made you feel you wanted a haircut, Campion? I was very careful, of course. Kid gloves all the way. Had to. I tell you one funny thing, though: she was rattled.’

  Mr Campion sat up. He knew his friend to be one of the soberest judges of humanity in the police force, where humanity is deeply studied.

  ‘Sure?’ he demanded incredulously.

  ‘Take my dying oath on it,’ said the chief. ‘Scared blue, if you ask me.’

  The young man in the horn-rimmed spectacles made polite but depreciating noises. The chief shook his head.

  ‘It’s the truth. I gave her the facts – well, most of them. I didn’t explain how we came to open the parcel, since that part of the business wasn’t strictly orthodox. But I gave her the rest of the story just as I’ve given it to you, and instead of being helpful she tried to send me about my business with a flea in my ear. She insisted that she had directed each outgoing parcel during the last four weeks herself and swore that the Matisse woman could never have had access to any of them. Also, which is significant, she would not give me a definite reply about the duck. She was not sure if she’d ever seen it before. I ask you – a badly made yellow duck in a blue pullover. Anyone’d know it again.’

  Mr Campion grinned. ‘What was the upshot of this embarrassing interview?’ he enquired.

  The chief coughed. ‘When she started talking about her son in the Upper House I came away,’ he said briefly. ‘I thought I’d let it rest for a day or two. Meanwhile, we shall keep a wary eye on Swan and the Borringers, although if those three are working together I’ll resign.’

  He was silent for a moment.

  ‘She certainly was rattled,’ he repeated at last. ‘I’d swear it. Under the magnificent manner of hers she was scared. She had that set look about the eyes. You can’t mistake it. What d’you make of that, my lad?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Campion discreetly. ‘It’s absurd.’

  Oates sighed. ‘Of course it is,’ he agreed. ‘And so what?’

  ‘Sleep on it,’ his host suggested and the chief took the hint …

  It was unfortunate for everyone concerned that Mr Campion should have gone into the country early the following morning on a purely personal matter concerning a horse which he was thinking of buying and should not have returned to his flat until the evening. When he did get back he found Juliet and the dark, good-looking Philip Graysby, with whom she had presumably made up her differences, waiting for him. To Mr Campion they both seemed very young and very distressed. Juliet appeared to have been crying and it was she who broke the news.

  ‘It’s Auntie Flo,’ she said in a small tragic voice. ‘She’s bunked, Albert.’

  It took Mr Campion some seconds to assimilate this interesting development, and by that time young Graysby had launched into hurried explanations.

  ‘That’s putting it very crudely,’ he said. ‘My aunt caught the Paris plane this mor
ning. Certainly she travelled alone, which was unusual, but that may not mean anything. Unfortunately, she did not leave an address, and although we’ve got into touch with the Crillon she doesn’t seem to have arrived there.’

  He hesitated and his dark face became suddenly ingenuous.

  ‘It’s so ridiculously awkward, her going off like this without telling anyone just after Detective-Inspector Oates called on her last night. I don’t know what the interview was about, of course – nobody does – but there’s an absurd feeling in the household that it wasn’t very pleasant. Anyway, the inspector was very interested to hear that she had gone away when he called round this afternoon. It was embarrassing not being able to give him any real information about her return, and precious little about her departure. You see, we shouldn’t have known she’d taken the plane if the chauffeur hadn’t driven her to Croydon. She simply walked out of the house this morning and ordered the car. She didn’t even take a suitcase, which looks as though she meant to come back tonight, and, of course, there’s every possibility that she will.’

  Mr Campion perched himself on the table and his eyes were grave.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said quietly, ‘had Lady Florence an appointment with her manicurist today?’

  ‘Miss Matisse?’ Juliet looked up. ‘Why, yes, she had, as a matter of fact. I went round there quite early this morning. Swan phoned me and told me Aunt had left rather hurriedly, so I – er – I went to see him.’

  She shot an appealing glance at Philip, who grimaced at her, and she hurried on.

  ‘While I was there Miss Matisse arrived and Bennett – Aunt’s maid – told her all the gossip before I could stop her. Oh my dear, you don’t think …?’

  Instead of replying Mr Campion reached for the telephone and dialled a famous Whitehall number. Chief Detective-Inspector Oates was glad to hear his voice. He said so. He was also interested to know if Mr Campion had heard of the recent developments in The Sparrow case.

  ‘No,’ he said in reply to Mr Campion’s sharp question. ‘The two Borringers are behaving just as usual. Blower’s had the girl under his eye all day … No, she hasn’t communicated with anyone … What? … Wait a minute. I’ve got notes on Blower’s telephoned report here. Here we are. “On leaving the Dowager Countess of Marle’s house Miss Matisse went to the Venetian Cinema in Regent Street for the luncheon programme.” Nothing happened there except that she pulled Blower’s leg again.’

  ‘Did she shout to someone?’ Mr Campion’s tone was urgent.

  ‘Yes. Called to a woman named Mattie, who she said she thought was in the circle. Same silly stunt as last time. What’s the matter?’

  Campion checked his exasperation. He was desperately in earnest and his face as he bent over the instrument was frighteningly grave.

  ‘Oates,’ he said, quietly, ‘I’m going to ring you again in ten minutes and then you’ve got to get busy. Remember our little talk about the Meyers? This may be life or death.’

  ‘Good …’ began the chief and was cut off.

  Mr Campion hustled his visitors out of the flat.

  ‘We’re going down to see Swan,’ he said, ‘and the quicker we get there the better.’

  Henry Swan proved to be a small frightened man who was inclined to be more than diffident until he had had matters explained to him very thoroughly. Then he was almost pathetically anxious to help.

  ‘The address on the duck parcel, sir?’ he said, echoing Mr Campion’s question nervously. ‘I daren’t tell the police that. It might have been more than my life was worth. But if you think her ladyship –’

  ‘Let’s have it,’ cut in Graysby irritably.

  ‘Please,’ murmured Juliet.

  Mr Swan came across. ‘Nineteen A, Rue Robespierre, Lyons, France,’ he blurted out. ‘I’ve burned the label, but I remember the address. In fact, to tell you the truth, it was because of the address I opened the box in the first place. I never had such a fright in all my life, sir, really.’

  ‘I see. Whom was the parcel sent to?’ Mr Campion’s manner was comfortingly reassuring.

  Henry Swan hesitated. ‘Maurice Bonnet,’ he said at last, ‘and I once met a man who called himself that.’

  Mr Campion’s eyes flickered. ‘On those occasions when he wasn’t calling himself Meyer, I suppose?’ he remarked.

  The small man turned a shade or so paler and dropped his eyes.

  ‘I shouldn’t like to say, sir,’ he murmured.

  ‘Very wise,’ Campion agreed. ‘But you’ve got nothing to worry about now. We’ve got the address and that’s all that matters. You run along. Graysby, you and I have got to hurry. I’ll just have a word with Oates on the phone and then we’ll nip down to Croydon and charter a plane.’

  Juliet caught his arm. ‘You don’t mean Philip’s aunt might be in danger?’ she said.

  Mr Campion smiled down at her. ‘Some people do resent interference so, my dear,’ he said, ‘especially when they have quite a considerable amount to lose …’

  The Rue Robespierre is not in the most affluent quarter of Lyons and just before midnight on a warm spring evening it is not seen at its best. There silent figures loll in the dark doorways of houses which have come down in the world, and the night life has nothing to do with gaiety.

  From Scotland Yard the wires had been busy and Campion and Graysby were not alone as they hurried down the centre of the wide street. A military little capitaine and four gendarmes accompanied them, but even so they were not overstaffed.

  As their small company came to a stop before the crumbling façade of number nineteen an upper window was thrown open and a shot spat down upon them. The capitaine drew his own gun and fired back, while the others put their shoulders to the door.

  As they pitched into the dark musty hall a rain of fire met them from the staircase. A bullet took Mr Campion’s hat from his head, and one of the gendarmes stepped back swearing, his left hand clasping a shattered right elbow.

  The raiding party defended itself. For three minutes the darkness was streaked with fire, while the air became heavy with the smell of cordite.

  The end came suddenly. There was a scream from the landing and a figure pitched over the balustrade on to the flags below, dragging another with it in its flight, while pattering footsteps flying up to the top storey testified to the presence of a fugitive.

  Mr Campion plunged forward, the others at his heels. They found Florence, Dowager Countess of Marle, at last in a locked bedroom on the third floor. She had defended herself and had suffered for it. Her black silk was torn and dusty and her coiffure dishevelled. But her spirit was unbroken and the French police listened to her tirade with a respect all the more remarkable since they could not understand one word of it.

  Graysby took his aunt back to her hotel in a police car and Mr Campion remained to assist in the cleaning up.

  Bertrand Meyer himself actually succeeded in getting out on to the roof, but he was brought back finally and the little capitaine had the satisfaction of putting the handcuffs on him.

  One of the gang had been killed outright when his head had met the flagstones of the hall, and the remaining member was hurried off to a prison hospital with a broken thigh.

  Mr Campion looked at Meyer with interest. He was an oldish man, square and powerful, with strong sensitive hands and the hot angry eyes of a fanatic. His workroom revealed many treasures. A jeweller’s bench, exquisitely fitted with all the latest appliances, contained also a drawer which revealed the dismembered fragments of the proceeds of the first three London burglaries, together with some French stones in particular request by the Sûreté.

  Campion looked round him. ‘Ah,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘and there’s the wireless set. I wondered when some of you fellows were going to make use of the outside broadcasting programmes. How did you work it? Had someone listening to the first part of the first programme to be broadcast from a London public place each day, I suppose? It really is amazing how clearly those asides come, her v
oice quite fearless and yet so natural that it wasn’t until some time afterwards that I realised she had been standing just below the orchestra’s live microphone.’

  Meyer did not answer. His face was sullen and his eyes were fixed on the stones which the Frenchmen were turning out of little chamois leather bags on to the baize surface of the bench …

  It was some days later, back in the flat in Bottle Street, when Chief Detective-Inspector Oates sipped a whisky and soda and beamed upon his friend.

  ‘I take off my hat to the old girl,’ he said disrespectfully. ‘She’s got courage and a great sense of justice. She says she’ll go into the witness-box if we need her and she apologized handsomely to me for taking the law into her own hands.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Campion. ‘You’ve got the Borringers, of course?’

  The chief grinned. ‘We’ve got ’em as safe as a couple of ferrets in a box,’ he declared. ‘The man’s an expert, but the woman’s a genius. The story she told the old lady, for instance. That was more than brains. After she’d got her ladyship interested in her she broke down one day and told a pretty little yarn about her cruel husband in France who had framed a divorce and got the custody of the kid. She told a harrowing story about the little presents she had made for it herself and had had sent back to her pronto. It didn’t take her long to get the old woman to offer to send them as though they’d come from the White Elephant Society. Every woman has a streak of sentimentality in her somewhere. So all the Barringer – alias Matisse – girl had to do was to bring along the toys in her manicure case from time to time and have ’em despatched free, gratis, with a label which almost guaranteed ’em a free pass. Very nice, eh?’

  ‘Very,’ Campion agreed. ‘Almost simple.’

  The chief nodded. ‘She did it well,’ he said; ‘so well that even after I’d given the old lady the facts she didn’t trust me. She believed so strongly in this fictitious kid that she went roaring over to Lyons to find out the truth for herself before she gave the girl away. Unfortunately, the Borringers had that means of wireless communication with Meyer and so when she arrived the gang was ready for her. It’s a good thing you got there, Campion. They’re a hot lot. I wonder what they’d have done with her.’