Mr Campion continued diffidently:
‘I don’t want to alarm you all, but frankly, you know, I’ve a tremendous respect for the police. They’re about as good at their jobs as people ever get. Their occasional mistakes are the exceptions which prove the rule. They aren’t trying anything out, or shelving any responsibility, or anything like that. I’m afraid it’s much more devastating. You see, they feel they’ve got an open-and-shut case and so they’re dealing with it in the quickest and most efficient manner possible. It’s rather revolting when you see it from our present angle, I know, but there you are …’
Mr Widdowson appeared to be temporarily silenced, and it was Gina who spoke, her voice husky.
Albert, you don’t think Mike killed Paul, do you?’
‘No, old dear,’ said Mr Campion, ‘but somebody did. Don’t let’s lose sight of that.’
There was a long pause. Miss Curley moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, a regular movement more nervous than feverish.
‘Moreover, someone murdered him very neatly indeed’ – Campion sounded apologetic when he spoke again – ‘and in spite of that the method has been detected already. That’s another point I don’t think we should miss. Our astute friends Tanner and Pillow aren’t so very inefficient. They’ve dogged that much out all right, although they didn’t get on the scene until the body had been moved and the most appalling mess made of the strong-room. They’re not fools and they’re not dishonest. They don’t want to arrest an innocent man, believe me. That’s every policeman’s nightmare. But on the other hand, they do want to do their job decently. Someone has murdered Paul and they’re employed to catch him and stop him doing it to anybody else.’
John sat up slowly and turned the full force of his famous disapproving eye upon Campion.
‘You seem to be a very outspoken young man,’ he observed.
Mr Campion appeared to be embarrassed.
‘It’s a very outspoken business,’ he said. ‘Do you still want me to have a look round?’
‘Albert, you must.’ Gina had risen. The pallor of her face was accentuated and her mouth quivered uncontrollably. ‘I do see the danger. I’ve seen it all the time. It’s been haunting me ever since that dreadful Monday morning. You must find out that Mike couldn’t have locked the strong-room door and put the key away. You must find out why he didn’t say he’d seen Paul when he went down there on Sunday – because he must have been there – and you must find out what he was really doing before I phoned him on Thursday night.’
Her voice ceased abruptly and she stood holding out her hand to him, an involuntary gesture oddly appealing. He looked at her gravely.
‘I’ll do all I can,’ he promised.
John rose. ‘I know it was an accident,’ he said, and there was conviction in his tone. ‘If you want to oblige me, Campion, you’ll prove it. Get to the bottom of the mystery and you’ll find I’m right. Now, Gina, you’re to come back with me. I want you in the house when Cousin Alexander arrives.’
The girl rose obediently. A lifetime of authority had endowed John with a gift for it.
‘An accident,’ he repeated firmly as he shook hands with Campion in the hall, adding naïvely: ‘Terrible publicity. Good night.’
Gina clutched Campion’s hand; her lips were trembling.
‘Let me know what’s happening, won’t you – please,’ she whispered.
John was half-way to the staircase and she glanced over her shoulder at him, dropping her voice to a whisper.
‘Albert, will they open his letters there?’
Campion met her eyes.
‘I shouldn’t write if I were you,’ he said earnestly.
‘I see.’ Her voice died away and the dullness returned to her eyes. ‘Good-bye, and thank you.’
Campion watched her until she disappeared and then went slowly back into the sitting-room. He had forgotten Miss Curley, and now the sight of her sitting quietly in an arm-chair, her hat slipping back until it looked like a three-cornered halo and her near-sighted eyes thoughtful behind her pince-nez, startled him. He smiled at her guiltily.
‘I thought I had better stay to tell you that I’ll give you all the help I can,’ she said. ‘Mr Widdowson is really terribly grateful to you for taking up the case, but of course he’s worried just now. The shock has been tremendous, for one thing. But I thought I’d like to tell you that if you care to examine any room in the office or get access to any papers I’ll see that you can do it without interference.’
‘I shall hold you to that,’ he said gratefully, and added impulsively: ‘I’m not really the sensitive soul you seem to think.’
She sighed. ‘Well, as long as you’re not …’ she said. ‘Mr Widdowson does give offence quite unconsciously at times. It’s being in the office so long, I suppose.’
And then, to his consternation, her voice broke and she began to cry.
‘I’m all right – I’m all right,’ she said, waving him away with one hand and dabbing at her eyes with the other. ‘I don’t know what made me so stupid. It’s the suddenness of it all, I suppose, although I’ve woken up in terror of something very like it every night this week. Mr Campion, why didn’t they arrest her as an accomplice?’
Before this mixture of muddled thought and penetration, Mr Campion found himself a trifle bewildered, but he answered the direct question.
‘Gina came out very well on the stand,’ he said cautiously. ‘Besides, there’s no direct evidence of an affair – no letters or anything. The charwoman was pretty damaging, but it was fairly obvious she’d go to pieces in cross-examination.’
‘But there’s no direct evidence against Mike,’ Miss Curley protested. ‘It’s all circumstantial.’
He nodded gloomily. ‘I know. But there’s a devil of a lot of it. I rather fancy that Salley has been stewing up for a row with his critics for some time and is spoiling for a show-down. You see,’ he went on gently, ‘the police evidently believe not only that they’re right, but that they’re obviously right.’
Miss Curley’s moist eyes darkened reflectively.
‘I’ve known Mike ever since he was a child,’ she said, ‘and I don’t think –’
She paused and he regarded her quizzically.
‘Are you sure?’
The old woman looked up at him.
‘Men in love are not quite normal,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it over and over again. But I don’t – I can’t think Mike would kill Paul. And, anyway,’ she added triumphantly, ‘if he had he wouldn’t have done it like that.’
Campion brightened. ‘That’s what I’m banking on,’ he said.
Lugg put his head round the door.
‘Bloke outside,’ he remarked, and then catching sight of Miss Curley, started visibly. ‘I thought you had gorn, Madam,’ he remarked when he had recovered his composure, and straightening up announced with remarkable change of personality: ‘A gentleman is waiting in the hall, sir. Would you see ’im?’
‘Of course,’ said Campion, slightly ashamed of his old friend. ‘Do drop that accent, it’s getting on my nerves.’
A spiteful expression appeared in Mr Lugg’s small black eyes and he surpassed himself.
‘Very blinking good, sir,’ he said, and stalked out.
Ritchie came in, stooping unconsciously to avoid the lintel.
‘Gina gone?’ he inquired. ‘Oh, hello, Miss Curley. Thought I’d come and see you, Campion. Been down to the place with some of Mike’s things – pyjamas, toothbrush, comb, and so on. Still got to live, wash, eat, poor chap. It’s a mistake, Campion.’
He dropped into a chair as he spoke and his pale blue eyes regarded the younger man with that questioning, inarticulate expression which Campion had seen there before.
‘Got to find out who did it,’ said Ritchie. ‘Must.’
Miss Curley rose and held out her hand.
‘Don’t forget,’ she repeated, ‘if there’s anything you want to see in the office, come to me.’
&
nbsp; Campion showed her out and on the steps she looked up at him.
‘You’re a good boy to help us,’ she said suddenly, and patted his arm.
Campion went back to Ritchie, who had drawn up to the fire and was gloating over it like some huge but benevolent spider trying to get warm.
‘Cousin Alexander,’ he remarked, without turning round. ‘Eloquent – dramatic.’
Campion took his mind off the immediate problem for a moment to consider Alexander Barnabas, K.C. The grand old man had been comparatively quiet for a month or so, he reflected. He could not remember seeing his name about since the Shadows trials in the summer. In view of the circumstances, he regretted that he had never seen the barrister in the flesh, although photographs of that magnificent head were familiar enough and the very mention of his name brought recollections of dramatic cross-examinations and sensational speeches.
Sir Alexander’s history was stormy. Although he was Jacoby Barnabas’s only son, he had avoided publishing and taken to the law, with his father’s full consent and approval, and had made his name as a junior in the great days of Marshall Hall before the bar had followed the stage into a quieter and less rhetorical style. After taking silk his practice had grown and he had been greatly sought after as a leader, until the unfortunate quarrel with the Judge in the Leahbourne case had done his reputation irreparable damage.
However, although it was still felt that his temper was not to be trusted, his triumphal return in the Dallas trial had restored him to popular, if not academic, favour, and he was now considered a fine showy counsel for the defence in sensational criminal trials and was often briefed by solicitors whose clients were backed by a newspaper.
Campion thought he understood Mr Scruby’s apprehension. A remark from Ritchie recalled his attention.
‘Thought of something. Ought to mention it.’
The man had turned in his chair and was looking up anxiously.
‘Hose-pipe – car exhaust – locked room – all that, not original,’ he blurted out at last. ‘Plagiarism. All in a book.’
‘In a book?’ inquired Mr Campion, a trifle mystified.
A vigorous nodding affirmed the question.
‘Book called Died on a Saturday. Most of it in there. Read it myself. Recognized it in court.’
‘Who published it?’
Ritchie’s face lengthened. ‘Us. Ten – twelve months ago. Not much of a sale.’
Mr Campion was looking at him anxiously.
‘Who read this book besides you? – in the office, I mean?’
Ritchie’s tremendous bony shoulders hunched in a shrug.
‘Anyone. Handled by Mike’s department.’
‘Are you saying that Mike brought out a book describing the method of murder which was used to kill Paul less than a year ago?’ Campion demanded, aghast.
Ritchie’s wretchedness increased.
‘Fifteen months perhaps,’ he suggested.
Mr Campion passed his hand over his sleek yellow hair and whistled.
Ritchie was silent for some moments, his awkward figure twisted over the arm of his chair.
‘Somebody did it,’ he said at last. ‘Evidence showed that.’
Campion looked down at him.
‘What’s your private opinion?’ he inquired unexpectedly. ‘You were much closer to it all than I was. Who did it?’
Ritchie shook his ponderous head.
‘Anyone,’ he murmured, and added with a sigh and a flail-like gesture: ‘No one.’
Mr Campion pursued his private thoughts.
‘That Miss Netley, tell me about her.’
Ritchie wrinkled his nose and achieved a masterpiece of pantomimic disapproval.
‘Affected girl,’ he said. ‘Silly. Sly. Superior. Little snob. Stupid clothes.’
‘Anything else?’
The other man hesitated.
‘Don’t know much. Only seen her about. Fond of the ballet. Has a Post Office Savings Book. Arch,’ he added in triumph. ‘That’s it – she’s arch. Don’t like her.’
He rose to go shamefacedly, evidently feeling that he had not been very helpful in the cause, for he shook hands earnestly and, his blue eyes peering beseechingly into Campion’s own, made a long and for him coherent speech.
‘Do what you can, Campion. Mike’s a good fellow – decent fellow. Never hurt a soul. Kind fellow — kind. Pleasant, friendly to me. Couldn’t possibly get anything out of it. If we don’t find out who killed affected ass Paul they’ll bang Mike – kill him. Stop it, there’s a dear chap.’
After he had gone Mr Campion sat at his desk and scribbled idly on the blotting-paper. He had no illusions concerning the task in front of him. Events had moved more swiftly than he had contemplated and the need for urgency was great.
Suddenly the thought which had been playing round the edges of his conscious mind so irritatingly for some time past came out into the open. He reached for the telephone directory and got on to Miss Curley just as she had entered her home in Hammersmith.
She heard his question with surprise.
‘Mr Tom Barnabas?’ she echoed. ‘The one who – who disappeared?’
‘That’s the man.’ Campion’s voice sounded eager. ‘What sort of person was he? What was he like?’
Miss Curley cast her mind back twenty years.
‘A nice man,’ she said at last. ‘Good-looking, inclined to be reserved, but very odd. Why?’
‘Odd?’ Campion seized upon the word. ‘In what way?’
Miss Curley laughed, but when she spoke her words had a flavour of the macabre.
‘He could walk upstairs on his hands,’ she said.
CHAPTER X
Twenty Years After
IT WAS WET and bitterly cold, with sludge on the pavement and dark grey blankets in the sky, when Mr Campion walked thoughtfully down Nemetia Crescent, Streatham, and tried to imagine it as it had been on a May morning, twenty years before.
To his relief, there was no sign of any recent building operations, and, although the neighbourhood had gone down a little, he suspected, there was no evidence of any structural alteration.
It was a melancholy little enclosure, a half hoop of flat-fronted houses looking out across a strip of wet tarmac at a bank of dilapidated shrubs.
He found the house out of which Tom Barnabas had walked on May the eighth, nineteen hundred and eleven, and stood in the rain looking at it. Dingy lace curtains covered the windows and a fly-blown black card in the transom over the unexpectedly nice door announced in silver letters that there were apartments within.
Mr Campion passed on and turned the corner at the end of the crescent. To his relief he saw that the deserted road in front of him tallied exactly with the description Miss Curley had given. A wall over six feet high and completely blank ran down the whole length of the road on the side nearest the crescent, while on the other a row of little villas recessed from the road by overgrown gardens straggled down to the trams and the main street.
Campion paused and let his imagination dwell upon the facts of the story as he knew them.
It had been about nine o’clock in the morning. Mr Barnabas had come striding from his house in the crescent, had turned the corner, and was apparently marching on to the little tobacconist’s at the end of the street, where it was his custom to stop and pick up a copy of The Times and the Standard, when unfortunately he stepped into the fourth dimension or was the victim of spontaneous combustion or some sort of accident to an atom.
The tobacconist’s was still there. A row of newspaper boards decorated the far end of the wall, in spite of the rain. Mr Campion wandered on, pausing now and again in spite of the weather and reflecting upon the few facts he had been able to glean that morning from the files of a newspaper.
For May 8th, 1911, the prophets had predicted fair to fine weather, warm temperature and slight mist. There had been an air smash in the Paris to Madrid race on the day before, when Monsieur Train had crashed at Issy, killing himself and ser
iously injuring Monsieur Monis, Premier of France, who had been present to see him start. The Court was just out of mourning for Edward VII, the Imperial Conference was opening the following day, and Freeman (J.) had been bowled by Hobbs for twenty-one in the presence of Their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and Prince George.
The information was not very helpful. The world, in fact, seemed to have been going on in much the same way as ever. And since it is always easier to believe in a miracle which happened twenty years ago than in one of yesterday morning, Mr Campion felt his suspicions aroused.
He looked at the wall. There was no way of telling what was on the other side. It might have hidden a pool, a back garden, or fairy-land itself.
He walked on to the newspaper and tobacconist’s shop. As he entered it his spirits rose. This stuffy little room with its doorway narrowed to the verge of the impassable by ancient paper-racks filled with brightly coloured periodicals, its acrid smell of newsprint, its two counters, one piled high with papers and the other decorated with every known brand of tobacco grouped round an immense pair of shining scales, could not have altered for forty or fifty, much less twenty years.
He stood hesitating on the square foot or so of floor space for some moments before he realized that he was not alone in this sanctuary of smoke and light literature.
Over the paper department there was a species of canopy composed of yet more periodicals clipped into wire frames, and in the narrow opening between this and the counter he caught sight of two very bright eyes peering at him from out a pepper-and-salt wilderness of hair and whisker.
‘Paper or a nice box of cigarettes, sir?’ said a voice at once friendly and a trifle pert.
Mr Campion bought both and had the satisfaction of seeing the remainder of the man as he came running out of his lurking-place to attend to the tobacconist’s side of his business.
He was very small, spry and compact, and his feet, which were tiny, were thrust into old sheepskin slippers which flapped as he walked.
‘Haven’t seen you about here before, sir,’ he inquired. ‘Moved into the district?’
‘Not yet,’ said Mr Campion cautiously.
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