‘You can find the girl whenever you want her, can you?’ he inquired when he could trust his voice.
‘Oh, yes. She’s being given ice cream and faithful affection by the long-suffering Brian. They’re waiting for me to do a spot of philanthropic lese-majesty, bless them. What are you going to do?’
The Superintendent placed a pair of shabby pince-nez across his nose, and picked up one of the forms. He read it again until his feelings choked him.
‘We’ll have to have ’em both up together,’ he decided. ‘When I’ve got word that we’ve pulled the man in, you fetch the girl.’
‘No mental cruelty,’ warned Campion hastily. ‘I don’t know if I want to be a party to this at all.’
Oates blew his nose. ‘The party is mine,’ he said dryly. ‘Don’t worry about the girl. I shall treat her as if she were my own daughter … exactly, the wretched little imbecile.’
Leaning forward, he pressed the buzzer on his desk.
He was in much the same mood a little after eight that evening when a sober, but still mercurial, Mr Gilbert Smith, alias Anthony Rowley, sat in the visitor’s chair regarding him with the bland affability of one who feels completely at ease.
‘Don’t apologise,’ murmured Mr Rowley when he felt that the silence had gone on long enough. ‘I don’t mind coming along to see you, even at this impossible hour. I told your Watch Committee in the bowler hats that I should only be too pleased to come with them to look you up. I like you. Nice little place you have here.’
Superintendent Oates glanced at Mr Campion, who sat in a corner on the other side of the room. It was a quiet, satisfied glance, the glance of one who savours a delicate wine before tasting.
‘It’s nice to see your friend, too,’ added Mr Rowley with increasing geniality. ‘It’s pleasant to find you in such – forgive me – but such unexpectedly intelligent company. You may not believe it, but I find an evening like this very jolly. I am a man of few acquaintances and there’s nothing I like better than a chat.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Oates with heavy politeness. ‘I should have thought you’d have had quite a busy life up at the Ministry. Let me see, you’re in the Registration of Office Premises Department, arent you?’
It was a hit. A shade, fleeting as a cloud shadow in a high wind, passed over Mr Rowley’s sleek and smiling countenance. His eyes wavered for an instant. However, when he spoke his voice was perfectly controlled.
‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘What a frightful pity. You’re confusing me with somebody else. I thought this was a personal call. I’m disappointed.’
‘Are you? Not nearly as much as you’re going to be, believe me. I’ve got a form here, quite a number of ’em in fact. Perhaps I’d better read one to you.’
He took a flimsy buff-coloured sheet from the pile before him.
‘This is a masterpiece in a small way,’ he began condescendingly. ‘Anyway, it has all the incomprehensibility and stultifying dullness of the genuine product. The printing is minute, and I doubt if many people would take the trouble to wade through it. I see the address is “Controller, BQ/FT/359 (A) 43, Whitehall,” but that has been struck out and “25 Calligan Way, Wembley,” printed in. You’ve been evacuated, I suppose?’
‘I don’t quite follow you,’ murmured Mr Rowley politely.
‘No? Well, we’ll come to that later,’ said Oates inexorably. ‘“Dear Sir,– In compliance with the recent Order in Council, No. 5013287, Sec. 2 AB et seq., you are required to complete the following details concerning the office premises now occupied by you. As you are doubtless aware, it has become important for police and the other interested authorities to possess certain necessary information concerning office premises in vulnerable areas, in order that proper protection for goods and valuables may be ensured in all eventualities.” ’
He paused and looked over his glasses at the expressionless face before him.
‘Bewilderingly ingenious,’ he said. ‘If there was an Order in Council No. 5013287 it would be even better.’
Mr Rowley yawned. ‘I find it tedious,’ he said frankly.
‘I don’t,’ said Oates. ‘It made me laugh. When I first read it I laughed till the tears ran down my face. It’s the ultimate labour-saving device of all time. The preliminary questions are magnificently simple. “Full Name of Occupier of Office. Address. Nature of Business. Number of Staff employed. Whether Night Watchman employed.” I liked that. That delighted me. But toward the end it gets even better. After “Number of floors, Number of rooms, Whether all rooms are accessible to a Fire Escape, How many doors between main staircase and each room, if said doors are locked and if so what locks are used,” we come to the fascinating question of safes. That is Sub-section C.4 B/F, I notice. Let me read you the headings. “In which room is your safe? State type (wall or box, etc.). State make of safe. State number of safe. State approximate date when safe was fitted. State approximate size of safe over all.” And finally, the ultimate pitch of consummate impudence, “Are you in the habit of leaving valuables in safe overnight?”’
Anthony Rowley shrugged his plump shoulders.
‘I’m afraid I can’t follow all that Government stuff,’ he said. ‘The only thing to do with an official form is to fill it in, not to try to understand it.’
‘Exactly.’ Oates was triumphant. ‘That’s the general view. That’s the fine fat-headed affectation adopted by half the great British public. That’s why a pernicious document of this sort is so dangerous. The man who composed this banked on the astounding fact that the chances are that a man who has spent a small fortune on protecting his property would yet direct his secretary to complete anything of this type without hesitation, so long as it was printed on cheap buff paper and arrived in an official envelope.’
‘Very instructive,’ agreed Mr Anthony Rowley languidly, ‘and to a psychologist probably entertaining, but I don’t see the point of it myself.’
‘Don’t you?’ said Oates. ‘That’s odd, because a number of these forms which I have here have already been filled in. They all come from smallish busy City firms, I notice; each one of them clearly a carefully chosen victim of the enterprising person who persuaded some small crook printer to set up the document. I should have thought you’d have been very interested.’
‘Me? My dear fellow, why me?’
The Superintendent appeared to appreciate the performance, for a brief smile passed over his grey face as he took a small sheaf of the buff slips from the blotter.
‘These are the forms which have been completed,’ he observed. ‘The rest are blanks. Do you know, it looks to me almost as though someone had been in a hurry, not to say in a funk, and has hastily collected everything connected with the Registration of Office Premises Department and packed it into a parcel for safety, after which he probably gave the parcel to some trustworthy and innocent person, some person who would never be suspected by the police, until his own premises should be safe from their attentions. I can imagine a man doing that on sobering up and remembering that he had opened his mouth far too wide when in conversation with a Superintendent of Police. Still, we’ll let that pass. The interesting thing is that out of the twenty-seven forms which various misguided members of the public have been pleased to complete, nineteen have been scored across with blue pencil. The eight which remain have one thing in common.’
‘Really?’ Rowley still kept up his polite indifference. ‘And what is that?’
‘They each record that the firm in question possesses a Bream safe, together with every conceivable detail concerning it.’ Oates made the announcement quietly, but all trace of his earlier sprightliness had vanished and his eyes were cold. ‘As you were so kind as to tell me,’ he added, ‘it was a very beautiful idea, but unfortunately it didn’t wash.’
There was a long pause, during which Mr Rowley looked thoughtfully into the future. Presently he smiled.
‘You’re so ingenious,’ he said. ‘I’ve been working out your theory, and it’s
been an education to me. Now I know why ever since last Tuesday your troop of Boy Scouts have been paying me such a lot of attention. They’ve taken a very thorough look at my flat, and they’ve escorted me wherever I’ve gone with touching fidelity. Naturally, they’ve been disappointed to find me living in blameless and rather boring innocence. I can understand your zeal and their exasperation. But weren’t you taking a little too much for granted? My dear chap, you know as well as I do that you can’t hope to pin those forms on me simply because eight of them refer to Bream safes.’
Oates did not answer him. Instead he glanced under his eyelashes at Mr Campion.
‘I wonder if I could trouble you to ask little Miss Susan Chad to step in here, my dear boy?’ he murmured with the fine display of old-world courtesy abominably overdone which he was apt to adopt at particularly enjoyable moments in his career.
Campion experienced a sneaking sympathy for Anthony Rowley. Just for an instant he saw the whites of the man’s eyes.
‘She’s something of a fan of yours, I gather,’ Oates observed mercilessly.
‘Is she? Rare and intelligent woman,’ murmured his visitor cautiously. ‘The name is new to me. I shall enjoy meeting her.’
When Campion returned with Susan clinging nervously to his arm he found himself hoping, most improperly, that she would live up to the testimonial. Oates rose at her approach and so did his visitor, who turned to meet her squarely.
Had Susan been an experienced accomplice, one glance at his blank, inquiring face would have given her the clue she needed. Unfortunately, at any rate from Mr Rowley’s point of view, Susan was hardly experienced in anything and her immediate reaction was disastrous.
‘Oh, Tony,’ she burst out eagerly, ‘when did you get back?’
He did not respond at once, and she glanced down the room, catching sight of the attaché-case on the Superintendent’s desk. A wave of colour spread over her face and she turned back to the man impulsively.
‘Oh, have I got you in a frightful row by breaking the seals? I’m desperately sorry. I wouldn’t have had it happen for worlds, but I couldn’t help it. Honestly, Tony. I couldn’t help it.’
She turned to Oates.
‘Does it matter so frightfully? Nothing has been stolen, you see. The whole package is just exactly as he gave it to me. Everything is there.’
Mr Campion always held it to Mr Rowley’s credit that in that moment of ruin he laughed.
‘So true, my dear,’ he said suddenly, holding out his hands to her. ‘As you say, nothing has been stolen. That ought to make a lot of difference.’
Oates sighed with satisfaction.
‘Then you admit …?’ he began.
‘Wait a moment.’ The man who called himself Anthony Rowley released Susan’s hands, smiled at her faintly with an odd mixture of apology and regret, and wandered over towards the desk. ‘I should like to make a brief statement,’ he said.
Oates leant back in his chair.
‘Oh, you would, would you?’ he said. ‘You’ve got a nerve.’
The crook shrugged his shoulders.
‘I should like to make a statement,’ he repeated.
In the circumstances there was nothing else for it, of course, and Oates gave way ungraciously.
‘We’ll hear it first and take the shorthand note afterwards,’ he said. ‘Fire away.’
Mr Rowley walked away from Susan, who had planted herself beside him.
‘It’s a sordid little tale of vulgar vanity,’ he began. ‘I met Miss Chad, who lives in a rather different circle from my own, about a fortnight ago, and in order to ingratiate myself with her I regret to have to say that I represented myself as having some sort of important Government post.’
‘Tony!’
Susan’s voice was small and horrified. He glanced at her briefly.
‘I’m sorry, Beautiful,’ he said, ‘but this is a police station, and when in the hands of the law the truth has a nasty way of being the only touchstone.’
‘Yes?’ inquired Oates grimly. ‘And so what?’
‘So nothing,’ continued Mr Rowley firmly. ‘Nothing of importance, that is, save that she believed me. I acquired quite a lot of fake prestige from this subterfuge. It went down very much better than the true story of my activities, which as you know are not very glorious, would have done. After all, an out-of-work motor car salesman twice convicted for burglary is not the romantic figure that a budding diplomat, I might almost say a blooming diplomat, appears.’
‘Tony,’ said Susan again, and this time he did not look at her.
‘All went well,’ he continued clearly, ‘until – er – chance took a hand. On Monday evening I took a cab in the vicinity of Westminster, and in it I found a large manilla envelope, left, no doubt, by a previous fare. In the envelope were these forms in which you are so interested. Quite frankly I didn’t bother to read them. I hate small print, and anyway I can hardly read, you know. I merely saw that they looked official, so I hit on the idea of packing them into a distinguished-looking parcel and giving them to Miss Susan to mind. I’m afraid I misjudged her. I took it for granted that feminine curiosity would be too much for her and that she would be bound to open the package, thereby receiving ocular proof that I was the important person I had set myself up to be. What I did not realise was that she would be so conscientious as to take the whole matter to the authorities.’
‘Tony, if this is true, I’ll never speak to you again.’ Susan was pale with rage and humiliation.
‘If it isn’t true, which seems more than probable, you’ll hardly have the opportunity,’ murmured the Superintendent.
Mr Rowley sat down.
‘How embarrassing one’s more childish follies always are,’ he remarked. ‘Truth is so naked, isn’t it?’
‘Tony, you’re making this up. It doesn’t sound like you. Tell me you’re making it up.’ Susan went over to him as she spoke and, since he could not avoid her, he smiled into her face, albeit a trifle wryly.
‘Life is full of vulgarity, my dear,’ he said. ‘Let this be an awful warning. One swallow doesn’t make a summer and one portfolio, alas! doesn’t make a Cabinet Minister.’
Susan gaped at him for a moment, and then disgraced herself.
‘Oh, I hate you,’ she said indistinctly. ‘I think you’re the meanest, most revolting little tick who ever lived. I never never want to see you again.’
Oates glanced anxiously at Mr Campion, who led her gently from the room. Mr Rowley remained where he was, blinking at the Superintendent, who leant across the desk.
‘I suppose you think you’ve been very clever?’ he demanded.
‘No. Prudent,’ said Mr Rowley. ‘Prudent, and, in my own way, almost a gentleman.’
‘Prudent be damned!’ exploded the Superintendent unpardonably. ‘If you think I’m going to believe any cock-and-bull story about you finding these things in a taxicab, you’re mad.’
Mr Rowley permitted a brief smile to break through the somewhat unexpected expression of resignation which had settled on his face.
‘You misjudge me,’ he said. ‘It’s not what I expect you to believe, is it? It’s what I know you can prove. Did you send anyone down to the address printed on the form?’
Oates did not answer. The chit from a plain clothes sergeant reporting briefly ‘Accommodation Address: Wise Guy in charge: no change to be got there in a million years’ lay open on the desk before him.
Mr Rowley got up.
‘I shall be hearing from you, no doubt,’ he said gently, ‘if it’s only to pass the time of day. Meanwhile you’ll want to confer with your legal advisers, won’t you? I should like to congratulate you on that ingenious theory you put forward, but you see the facts were far more simple and far more degradingly human. The wiliest of us do silly things to impress a woman.’
Oates laughed briefly.
‘The wiliest of us don’t escape every time,’ he said bitterly. ‘You wait, my lad.’
‘Oh, I shall,�
� Mr Rowley assured him. ‘You know my address.’
Mr Campion stood on the pavement looking for a cab which carried Brian and Susan out into the darkness. Having witnessed the grateful eagerness with which Susan had accepted his sheltering arm, Campion was inclined to bet that the young warrior’s last day of leave was liable to prove more satisfactory than his first.
He was just turning back to have a word with Oates when another figure loomed up out of the dark gateway. It was Mr Rowley, and he came up to Campion in the moonlight.
‘You were with Oates at the café that night,’ he said. ‘Tell me, did I call him an old duck, by any chance?’
‘Er – yes. Yes, I think you did.’
‘Fool,’ said Mr Rowley. ‘Fool. I’m always doing it. It’s bad luck. It’s prophetic. The association of ideas. See what I mean?’
‘No, I – I can’t say I do, exactly.’
‘Why, the rhyme,’ said the man excitedly. ‘Don’t you remember the rhyme? It was the “fine fat duck who gobbled him up,” wasn’t it? Fancy calling a Superintendent of Police a duck, anyway.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Campion as the light broke in upon him. ‘The frog, you mean?’
The other sighed.
‘The frog who would a-wooing go,’ he murmured. ‘Ah, well, but such a nice girl. Such a very nice girl and such a beautiful thought.’
They stood looking down the dark road.
‘Heigh ho,’ said Anthony Rowley.
13
The Danger Point
MR ALBERT CAMPION glanced round the dinner table with the very fashionable if somewhat disconcerting mirror top and wondered vaguely why he had been asked, and afterwards, a little wistfully, why he had come.
The Countess of Costigan and Dorn was the last of the great political hostesses, and she took the art seriously.
Sitting at the head of the preposterous table, she murmured witticisms in the ear of the bewildered American on her left in the fine old-fashioned manner born in the reign of the seventh Edward, although the decoration of the room, her gown, and her white coiffure belonged definitely to the day after tomorrow.
Mr Campion & Others Page 27
