‘I wouldn’t like to see us trying it now,’ he remarked. ‘You haven’t met old Salmon lately, have you? He’s grown very pompous since his success, poor chap. We used to make Jorkins sleep in this cupboard over here. He was short enough to lie down in it.’
He was still laughing as he opened the small door in the wall. Campion did not follow him immediately. An empty cigarette carton on the window sill had caught his attention and he had gone across to look at it. He still had it in his hand when Feering’s voice came sharply from the cupboard.
‘I say, Campion, come here. Look at this.’
Campion put his head into the little cell and glanced round its dingy walls through his horn-rimmed spectacles. The place was less than six feet square and was lit by a small window in the roof. It was quite devoid of furnishing, but possessed one startling feature. All round the rough plaster walls, about a foot above the wainscot, ran a string of six-inch crimson letters. They made out the words with difficulty.
‘Let me out,’ they read. ‘O let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out.’
The writing was shaky and irregular, but there was no mistaking the message. It sprang out at them from the little den like a cry and sent an unaccustomed thrill down Campion’s spine. On and on the message went, all round the tiny room. Sometimes it was in a double row. Sometimes it staggered up the wall.
‘Let me out o let me out let me out let me out.’
Very low down on the back of the door was the single word ‘Janey’ repeated half a dozen times.
The two men stared at each other for an instant and finally Feering laughed.
‘It’s mad, of course,’ he said. ‘Some sort of joke. It gave me a shock, though, almost a superstitious thrill. “Let me out” written in blood on the walls of a prison. As soon as one’s mind works one realises it’s a false effect. If anyone had been imprisoned here he would have shouted the words, not scribbled them. How attractively absurd!’
Campion was silent. He was kneeling down on the floor, peering at the inscription. Presently he rubbed one of the letters with an inquisitive finger and the colour came off on his hand. He moved under the skylight to examine it.
‘It’s recent work, anyway,’ he observed at last. ‘Wait a minute. Get out of the light, can you, old boy? Stand in the doorway while I have a look round.’
Feering moved obligingly and stood watching.
‘I like to see the veteran sleuth sleuthing,’ he remarked cheerfully. ‘It’s very instructive. Look out for the trouser knees. Hullo, have you got something? What is it? The clue the great man knew was there?’
‘The clue the great man hoped was there,’ corrected Campion modestly. He prised something small and bright from beneath the wainscot board, and rose, holding the treasure in the palm of his hand. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘There’s half the explanation of the blood-stained handwriting. All done while you wait.’
‘Lipstick!’ Lance took the small gilt holder from which practically all the cosmetic had been worn away, and turned it over curiously. ‘Sample size,’ he commented. ‘What’s the little bit of green thread for? That’s amateur work.’
‘I shouldn’t pull it off.’ Campion spoke hastily, an urgency in his tone which made the other man glance at him inquiringly.
‘Taking it seriously?’ he asked. ‘It is a joke of some sort, isn’t it? Have we stumbled on a crime?’ He almost sounded hopeful, and Campion shrugged his shoulders. He was laughing.
‘My dear chap, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I admit it doesn’t seem likely, and even if we have it’s hardly anything to do with us. Yet it’s odd that any woman should waste a whole lipstick writing “let me out” all round the wainscot of an empty room.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t empty then?’
‘In that case it’s curiouser and curiouser. Why should she move the furniture away from the walls in order to write behind it?’
‘I say, there is that.’ Lance Feering’s black eyes were growing sharper. ‘Still, why write it? Why not shout it?’ he insisted. ‘And anyway, why so low down?’
Campion hesitated. ‘I don’t want to be melodramatic,’ he said, ‘but if she were lying on the floor she could just reach as high as that, and I can imagine a frightened woman writing like that if she was prevented from shouting.’
‘Good Lord!’ Feering was staring at the little cell in blank astonishment. ‘Gagged!’ he ejaculated. ‘Bound and gagged.’
‘Hardly. If she was bound she couldn’t write, and if she wasn’t bound she’d hardly remain gagged. But she might have been frightened. It’s very curious.’
‘It’s incredible.’ Lance was frankly excited. ‘What shall we do? Call a bobby?’
‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t do that.’ Campion was firm. ‘He might not be amused. We’ve got to account for ourselves being here at all, you see. We walked in off the street without being asked. There isn’t even a “To Let” sign anywhere. We’re on enclosed premises. If you call the police we shall spend the rest of the day making statements. It’s interesting, though. I should say it had been written within the last forty-eight hours. The stuff isn’t dry, you see.’
Lance grimaced. ‘I came up here on a silly sentimental impulse, hoping to recapture some of the old spirit of adventure,’ he remarked. ‘Now I seem to have found it, and hang it, Campion, it’s a responsibility. Look at it. “Let me out o let me out.” It’s pathetic, poignant. It must be answered. I don’t see what we’re going to do, though, apart from making discreet inquiries from the people downstairs.’
‘Wait a moment.’ Campion was examining the lipstick holder. ‘All in good time. Let’s do the thing in proper academic style. First we learn all we can from the scene. Then we take the statements. I’ll tell you something, young sir. This is not ordinary lipstick. Not only is it a sample but it has an inscription. Look. “Prince Pierrot, Inc. ‘Maiden Voyage’.” What does that tell you? Nothing, I suppose. However, the experienced sleuth deduces instantly that Prince Pierrot is an American firm of high-class cosmetic manufacturers; American because he’s “Inc.” and not “and Co.” and high-class because the smell of the stuff is not offensive but rather pleasing. Moreover, it’s a nice expensive-looking colour. The “Maiden Voyage” provokes a longer shot, I admit, but there has been a pretty important maiden voyage from the U.S. just lately.’
‘The Eire!’ Lance swung round. ‘I say, that’s about it. That boat is the last word in floating hotels and I believe the advertising tie-ups were incredible. Probably these Pierrot people control the beauty parlours on board and ran off a few special samples with the complimentary name. There you are. This poor girl Janey – her name must be Janey — came over on the Eire. We’re on to something highly peculiar. They were all first-class passengers on that trip. What’s an American socialite doing in a dive like this less than a week after she lands in England? We must find her. Hang it, it’s up to us!’
Campion smiled, but his eyes were still serious.
‘Don’t be disappointed,’ he said warningly.
‘Disappointed?’ Lance was hurt. ‘My dear chap, I’m not a ghoul. I only hope it is a joke. I don’t want any beautiful young woman to have had a beastly time. What are you laughing at?’
‘I was wondering if she was beautiful and if she was young,’ murmured Campion. ‘There’s absolutely no guarantee of that.’
Lance grinned. ‘Poor, ugly little beast, then,’ he said. ‘I don’t care. I’ve got my adventure. Her name is Janey and I am her knight-errant. We’ve got all eternity before us. Where do we go from here?’
Their preliminary investigations were unexpectedly profitable. To Feering’s delight he discovered that the old charwoman who had lived in the basement in the days of his youth was still in occupation. After a glorious reunion, which could not have been more hearty had he been her long-lost son, she told them all she knew of the ex-tenants of the top floor. This was not a great deal, but the story had points of interest.
The
re had been two of them, she said, ‘flash boys, a little too smart to be trusted’. They had been living there for the best part of a month, and had seemed to her experienced eyes to be none too flush with money, even according to the standards of the neighbourhood. However, two days before there had come a change. The tenants of the attic had received visitors of an unusual kind. The strangers had arrived late one night. Out of her basement window she had caught a glimpse of their limousine, and afterwards had heard the sound of trampling feet on the uncarpeted stairs. The following evening the car had called again, and this time every one had gone off in it, carrying bundles and packages.
The old lady suspected a moonlight flit but had been surprised in the morning to discover one of the tenants still in possession. Even more to her astonishment, he had fetched in a junk dealer and disposed of the entire furnishings for a few shillings. Then, after leaving a week’s rent for the landlord, he had walked out quietly into the blue.
That was all Mrs Sadd had to report, and she hardly liked to take the treasury note which Feering pressed upon her, but she came running after them to tell them that one of the ‘flash boys’ had spoken with an American accent.
‘No girl,’ Lance remarked dubiously, as he followed Campion into a cab. ‘No mention of a girl at all. No screams. Nothing. The only corroboration we have is that one of the tenants had an American accent.’
‘He liked American cigarettes too,’ Campion observed. ‘There was an empty “Camel” carton on the mantelshelf. They’re expensive over here. Perhaps the visitors brought him a packet. It may be a wild-goose chase, but I think we’ll try the shipping office.’
‘Janey,’ said Feering, leaning back in the cab. ‘I see her as a dazzling blonde with dark eyes.’
Since Beatrix was a brunette with blue eyes, Campion took the observation to be a favourable sign.
Lance waited in the cab while Campion negotiated the somewhat delicate line of inquiry in the shipping office. It was a long vigil, but he was rewarded. The tall man in the horn-rimmed spectacles came striding out of the impressive doorway wearing that vacant expression which indicated that he was on the track of something interesting. He directed the taxi-man to the offices of one of the newspapers and climbed in beside his friend.
‘Miss Janey Lobbet, travelling with her mother, Mrs Fran Lobbet, of Boston, Mass.’ he said briefly. ‘That’s all I can find out about her. Passenger lists aren’t very communicative. But she was the only Janey on the boat, so far as I can find out. There’s one other point. You were perfectly right. Messrs Prince Pierrot Inc. had the monopoly of the beauty trade on the ship and they did run a special line in “Maiden Voyage” samples, exclusive to the trip. How’s that?’
Lance whistled. ‘What an extraordinary thing!’ he said at last. ‘“Let me out o let me out” … what on earth does it mean? There’s been nothing in the papers. What’s happened, Campion?’
‘I don’t know.’ The other man spoke with a seriousness unusual in him. ‘I don’t know at all, but I don’t like the feel of it and I rather think it’s something I ought to find out.’
At the newspaper office Campion’s call was on Miss Dorothea Azores, well known as the most industrious gossip-writer of the day. The lady herself was out, unfortunately, but her secretary was able to give them at least the bare bones of the information they sought. Mrs Fran Lobbet was the widow of Carl Lobbet, the paper magnet, and she and her only daughter, Janey, were staying at the Aragon Hotel, overlooking the Park. The secretary apologised that she had no photographs and so little information about the pair, but explained gently that there were a great many Americans in London.
‘Well, what do we do?’ inquired Lance as they came out through the bronze-and-glass doors into Fleet Street again. ‘Do we barge in on these good ladies and ask if either of them has spent a bad half-hour in Duke’s Row?’
Campion hesitated. ‘No,’ he said, the anxious expression still lingering behind his spectacles. ‘No, hardly that. But we might dine at the Aragon tonight if you’re not doing anything. I think I shall go myself, in any case.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said Lance firmly. ‘No poaching. This is my adventure. I found it and I’m sticking to it. The dinner’s mine. I’ll meet you in the restaurant at a quarter to eight. Don’t look so dubious. This is going to be good.’
‘I hope so.’ But Campion did not sound sanguine.
The Aragon was fashionable that year, and the big dining-room with the fine windows opening on to the Park was crowded with the usual noisy, well-dressed crowd when Lance arrived. He found Campion already installed at a table at the far end of the room, on the edge of the little dais which was part of the orchestra platform. It was a most advantageous position, giving him a clear view of the entire gathering.
‘Any luck?’
‘It all depends.’ Campion was cautious. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve been talking to Baptiste. He’s the maître d’hôtel here. I cultivate a line in maître d’hôtel. He’s an old friend. The Lobbets are here all right, or rather Madame is. Mademoiselle is away for a few days, staying with friends. That’s the table, the little one down there by the window. She’s expected any moment now.’
‘Staying with friends?’ Lance repeated, his eyebrows rising. ‘That’s suggestive, isn’t it? This is damned silly and exciting. Don’t be so blasé – or is this an everyday affair for you?’
‘I’m not blasé.’ Campion resented the accusation. ‘I don’t like the look of the thing. If I’m on the right track, and I’m afraid I may be, I’m appalled by it. Hello, here she is.’
Feering followed his glance across the room to where the portly Baptiste was settling a newcomer at the little table by the window.
‘It’s Janey.’ Lance turned to Campion. ‘What did I tell you? A dazzling blonde with dark eyes. I’m the seventh child of a seventh child: I’ve got prophetic vision. She looks a little pale, a little sad, doesn’t she? Momma has been very trying and she doesn’t know anybody in London. By George, she’s lovely! Look at her.’
Campion was looking at her. He saw a pale slender girl of twenty-eight or so, with ash-blonde hair and enormous dark eyes, the shadows beneath them enhancing their sombre loveliness. She was delightfully dressed, and from the clasp on her shoulder came the unmistakable watery gleam of real diamonds, yet he thought he had never seen anyone who looked so forlorn and miserably unhappy in his life. Lance drew a card from his wallet and began to scribble on it.
‘One can only be snubbed,’ he observed philosophically. ‘“Faint heart”, “nothing venture”, likewise “fain would I climb”. Give me that lipstick-holder. The green thread may touch a chord.’
He pushed the card across the table so that Campion could read the message.
‘I think this is yours. May I tell you where I found it and how I know? It’s a good story.’
‘Yes, that’ll do, I think.’ Campion produced the lipstick holder as he spoke. ‘I wonder, though,’ he went on. ‘It’s not fair to spring it on her like this unless –’
His voice trailed away. Lance was no longer listening to him. He had signalled a waiter and was dispatching his message.
Together the two friends watched the man cross the room. He paused before the table in the window, and said something to the girl. She looked surprised and almost, it seemed to Lance, a little frightened, but she glanced across at him and took the card as the waiter placed the holder on the white table-cloth beside her plate. The card fluttered from her hand as she caught sight of it and even from that distance they saw all trace of colour creep slowly from her face. She grew paler and paler and her eyelids drooped. Campion rose.
‘Look out, she’s going to faint,’ he said.
He was too late. The girl swayed sideways and crumpled to the ground.
Instantly there was commotion all round her, and the two men on the other side of the room had the uncomfortable experience of seeing her assisted to the door, Baptiste fluttering behind the procession like a scandalised due
nna.
Lance turned to Campion. In any other circumstances the bewildered regret upon his face would have been comic.
‘Ghastly,’ he said. ‘How did that happen? Was it coincidence or the sight of that confounded thing?’
Campion put his napkin on the table. ‘We’re going to find out,’ he said briefly.
Baptiste, solemn and reproachful, was bearing down upon them. He paused before the table and gave the message in a tone in which respectful deference was subtly mingled with deep disapproval.
‘Mrs Lobbet will be glad to see the two gentlemen who sent her the card in her private sitting-room.’
It was not so much an invitation as a royal command, and Lance said afterwards that he followed Campion to the suite on the first floor feeling as if he were bound for the headmaster’s study. At any rate, five minutes later they stood side by side, looking helplessly at the pale, unsmiling woman who waited to receive them with courage and dignity as well as terror in her dark eyes.
As the door closed behind the servant who had conducted them she spoke. Her voice was unexpectedly deep, and its trace of New England accent made it very attractive.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Has the price gone up again? Or couldn’t you wait until tomorrow?’
They gaped at her and Lance tugged at his collar uncomfortably.
‘I’m afraid there’s some mistake,’ he began awkwardly. ‘You see, we had no idea that you were Mrs Lobbet. We – that is, I – was looking for Janey.’
The name was too much for the woman. She remained for a moment struggling to master herself and then, with a gesture of complete helplessness, collapsed into a chair and hid het face.
‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, please don’t, I’ve told you I’ll meet any demands you like to make, but don’t torture us like this. Is she all right? Please, please tell me. Don’t you understand, she’s my baby? Is she all right?’
Lance glanced sharply at Campion and met the other man’s eyes.
‘A child!’ he said huskily. ‘Good lord, I never guessed.’
Mr Campion & Others Page 18
