Flowers For the Judge

by Margery Allingham

  He turned over the pages and his frown deepened.

  ‘And there’s nothing since. That’s odd in a way.’

  ‘Source of blackmail dead,’ suggested Ritchie crudely.

  Mr Campion did not scout the suggestion openly.

  ‘It’s not very much for blackmail,’ he murmured. ‘Eighteen pounds odd all told. It’s the paying-in places that strike me as being odd. They’re all over the shop. Only the first two alike. Of course, we’re catching at straws now, you know. This doesn’t prove anything. It may mean absolutely nothing. Still, it’s worth looking up.’

  He closed the book and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘I think I’ll go across and have a word with her.’

  ‘Say I took it if you have to,’ said Ritchie recklessly.

  ‘God forbid,’ Mr Campion spoke piously and left them.

  In spite of the fact that he had become a familiar figure at Twenty-three during the last few months, custom insisted that he should be shown into the waiting-room and there left to kick his heels until the person whom he sought should be discovered and delivered to him.

  He was standing with his back to the door, surveying the portrait of Jacoby Barnabas afresh, when Miss Netley came in. She went to meet him, a smile upon her lips and the same smug secretiveness in her eyes which he had noticed at their first meeting.

  ‘Here again, Mr Campion?’ she said pleasantly but with the faintest suggestion of amusement in her tone. ‘I thought perhaps you’d brought us a manuscript!’

  Mr Campion’s smile was wholly charming.

  ‘That’s what I call intuition,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’

  He had the satisfaction of seeing her complaisance vanish as she caught sight of the little brown book in his hand. Her round eyes lost their ingenuous expression and her colour vanished.

  ‘It’s mine,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it? Thank you for returning it.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m not returning it,’ murmured Mr Campion, and she gaped at him.

  ‘I’ve never heard such impudence in all my life,’ she burst out finally. ‘How dare you! Where did you get it anyway?’

  ‘Took it,’ said Mr Campion and put the book back in his pocket.

  Miss Netley trembled. ‘It’s outrageous!’ she said unsteadily. ‘It’s illegal – its’ stealing!’

  ‘Of course it is,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s go and tell Inspector Tanner all about it, shall we? He’s a policeman.’

  She drew back from him, her lips sulky, her eyes narrowed and frightened.

  ‘What do you want to know? I can’t tell you anything.’

  Mr Campion sighed with relief. They taught them to be quick-witted in offices, he reflected.

  ‘I thought we might have a chat,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve told the police everything – absolutely everything.’

  ‘About the murder? Yes, of course you have,’ he said, wondering how long they were going to be left alone in peace in the waiting-room. ‘Let’s talk about yourself.’

  Her suspicion increased.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Mr Campion leant on the large table which filled the centre of the room. His expression was vague to the point of idiocy and his eyes looked guileless behind his spectacles.

  ‘I hate to sound inquisitive, and my question may sound a little in bad taste,’ he began, ‘but however much one’s upset by a death one has to face facts, hasn’t one? I do hope you won’t think it impertinent of me to ask if your financial position has been very much upset by Mr Paul Brande’s death? It is frightfully inquisitive, I know, but I would be really obliged if you’d tell me.’

  She looked relieved and he saw at once that he was on a wrong tack.

  ‘Well, I haven’t lost my job, if that’s what you mean,’ she said. ‘What other difference could it make?’

  ‘None, of course. If you’re staying on that’s all right.’ Mr Campion covered his tracks but her interest had been aroused.

  ‘Just exactly what are you getting at?’ she demanded.

  He took the bank-book out of his pocket, looked at it thoughtfully, and replaced it again.

  ‘You told the police exactly what happened when Mr Paul Brande got a letter by the afternoon post on the Thursday that he disappeared. You haven’t remembered anything else since, have you?’

  ‘I’ve told it all, every single word, over and over again.’

  There was an edge to her voice which warned him to be careful. He smiled at her brightly.

  ‘You’ve got awfully strong nerves, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Let’s go into his old office and – just go through it. Please don’t think I’m being a nuisance, but I would like to know just exactly what happened. It’ll fix the picture in my mind, you see.’

  Miss Netley looked at him witheringly, but the retort which rose to her lips did not come, and without a word she led him up to the first floor and into the big comfortable room, a little too preciously furnished for an office, in which Paul had worked.

  Mr Campion sat down at the desk after placing his hat and stick carefully on a side table.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘where were you when the letter came?’

  Still sullen, and looking her contempt, Miss Netley seated herself at the typewriter in the corner.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I suppose the boy brought the letter in, gave it to you and you handed it to Mr Brande?’

  She bowed her head. It was evident that she did not trust herself to speak. Mr Campion tore open an imaginary envelope, exhibiting much pantomimic skill.

  ‘Now,’ he demanded briskly, ‘what do I do now?’

  ‘Mr Paul got up,’ said Miss Netley, indicating that she was not going to play, ‘scrunched up the paper and envelope and threw them into the fireplace.’

  ‘Like that?’ said Mr Campion, hurling an imaginary ball from him violently.

  ‘No,’ she said unwillingly. ‘Just casually.’

  ‘And it burned?’ he inquired, his eyes resting on her quizzically.

  ‘It did.’

  ‘All of it? Every scrap of it?’

  ‘Every tiny bit.’

  ‘You looked to see?’

  She met his eyes defiantly. ‘After he had gone, yes, I did.’

  ‘We’re getting on,’ said Mr Campion cheerfully. ‘Now I get up, don’t I? And I seem excited? What happens? Do I get red and seem a little flustered? Do I take up my hat and stick and make for the door without a word or a glance in your direction? Or do I say something?’

  The girl hesitated. She seemed to be considering her course of action.

  ‘No,’ she said at last, grudgingly. ‘Mr Paul asked me if a parcel had come.’

  ‘Oh, did he? What did he say? Can you remember his actual words?’

  ‘He said’ – she still spoke unwillingly – ‘“Has that parcel come from Fortnum and Mason’s yet?”’

  ‘Fortnum and Mason’s? And what did you say?’

  ‘I said, “No, Mr Brande, I don’t think it has.” And he said, “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” and went out without it. And now I hope you’re satisfied.’

  ‘Well, it’s a crumb,’ said Mr Campion. ‘It’s a crumb. Ten bob here, a pound there. Two pounds and five pounds – it all tells up, doesn’t it?’

  He stopped abruptly. If he had meant to terrify her he could not have been more successful. She was staring at him, her eyes wide and her lips open.

  ‘What do you know?’ she said huskily.

  ‘Much more than you’d think,’ Mr Campion spoke cryptically and he hoped convincingly. ‘Let’s get back to Mr Paul. You said the parcel hadn’t come and then what happened?’

  ‘I told you. He said it didn’t matter. “It does not matter,” he said. “I will go without it.” Then he went out and shut the door and I never saw him again.’

  ‘Splendid !’ said Mr Campion. ‘You’re not a good witness, you know, but it makes a lot of difference when you try.

  ‘Now what happened
to the parcel? Did it ever come?’

  ‘Yes. It came about an hour after he left. I put it in that cupboard over there.’

  ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t looked.’

  ‘Then shall we look now?’ he suggested.

  She got up, sauntered across the room and jerked open the cupboard.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There it is.’

  ‘Bring it here,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I wouldn’t have you for a secretary as a gift.’

  Miss Netley reddened and opened her mouth to speak. A single unprintable epithet left her lips and then, as he looked completely shocked, she strode over to her typewriter and burst into tears.

  Campion examined the parcel. There seemed to be nothing in any way extraordinary about it and he loosened the string. Inside was a square box, tastefully ornamented and containing two pounds of crystallized Cape gooseberries.

  He sat looking at them in their green and pink sugar jackets, his head slightly on one side and his eyes puzzled.

  ‘Who was the lady?’ he inquired at last.

  Miss Netley wiped her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Of course you do. Ten bob – two pounds –’

  She laughed. ‘You’re wrong. I knew you were wrong.’

  Her watery-eyed triumph was vindictive.

  ‘Well, I know now,’ said Mr Campion mercilessly. ‘Come on, I want the address.’

  ‘I don’t know it.’

  He had the uncomfortable impression that she was telling the truth.

  ‘Look here, young woman,’ he said severely, ‘an accident of nature has given you a certain amount of intelligence. Believe me when I tell you that now is the time to use it. Think! Pull your scattered little wits together. Get it into your head that now is the time to talk.’

  This sudden ferocity from the hitherto mild young man had the desired effect.

  ‘There was a telephone number he used to ring up sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘He used to send me out of the room and then just as I was going I would hear him give the number.’

  ‘Well, then, out with it for the love of Mike,’ said Mr Campion using the expression unconsciously.

  ‘Maida Vale 58423. Now I can’t tell you any more. I can’t – can’t! I don’t know any more.’

  ‘Maida Vale 58423,’ said Mr Campion, scribbling the number on the blotter in front of him. ‘All right. You clear off now and get your face washed.’

  ‘What about my book? You can’t keep my book.’

  ‘I should trust me with it for a day or two,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I might put something in it. You never know.’

  A stifled scream escaped the girl. He had a vision of her, white and trembling, and then the door banged behind her. Enlightenment dawned in Mr Campion’s pale eyes.

  ‘So that’s how he did it,’ he said and pulled the telephone towards him.

  He heard the bell ringing in the far-off room for some time before a voice answered him.

  ‘Yes? Maida Vale 58423. Who is it, please?’

  Mr Campion was puzzled. It was a woman’s voice and it was familiar, but he could not place it. Completely in the dark, he proceeded cautiously.

  ‘I say, I’m afraid you’ll think it frightfully odd of me ringing up like this,’ he began. ‘I wonder if it would be too much to ask you if I could come along and see you? It really is important and I wouldn’t take up more than ten minutes of your time?’

  ‘Do you know the address?’ whispered the voice. ‘It’s Thirty-two Dorothy Studios, Denbigh Road, Kilburn. You open the garden gate and come down the steps.’

  ‘Splendid. I’ll be right along,’ he said, completely startled. ‘My name’s Campion, by the way.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I’ve been expecting you. My name’s Teddie Dell.’

  Mr Campion hung up the receiver slowly.

  He was very conscious of the fact that he had never heard either the name or address in his life before.

  CHAPTER XII

  Somebody Died

  MR CAMPION SAW THE studio as soon as he pushed open the gate in the blank wall behind the huge margarine-coloured block of flats and came out on to the iron staircase high above the untidy strip of sunken garden.

  It sat opposite him in the grass, trying to look like a country cottage and succeeding in suggesting a garden suburb. Its four tall windows faced south and the back of the flats and had diamond panes. The skylight had been leaded over.

  There was a trimness about the whole building and a preponderance of bright colours which conveyed a personality childish, or at least uneducated. The paint was green, the curtains blue, the window-sills and step red ochred, while a ridiculous little green dog-kennel stood beside the door. It looked extraordinarily clean and new in the dinginess of Kilburn and no more in bad taste than a painted Noah’s Ark, which it resembled.

  It was six o’clock and not yet dusk, although the sun had gone in. The flats and studio appeared to be deserted and there was a quiet evening melancholy upon the scene.

  Mr Campion went slowly down the iron staircase and, picking his way over the grass, tapped with the brass knocker which bore a relief of Worcester Cathedral and had come from Birmingham via Bruges.

  An excited yapping from within answered him, followed by a woman’s voice admonishing the dog. Then the door opened.

  ‘Come in,’ said Teddie Dell.

  Enlightenment came to Mr Campion as he recognized the woman who had been waiting for him outside the Bottle Street flat when he had come home from the inquest with Gina and Curley. She looked bigger and older in her indoor clothes. Her fairish hair was dressed close to her head and was cut in a thin unfashionably curled fringe, while her strong capable body was sturdy and unsuitably dressed in a very smooth blue skirt and a very frilly blouse.

  There was a suggestion of strength about her face also, with its square jawbone and thick cream skin, its good teeth and wide-set blue-grey eyes.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering if I ought to ring you. Come in and sit down and have a cigarette.’

  The over-carefulness of her pronunciation struck him again, but her self-possession was unconscious and superb.

  The dog was frantic with delight at his arrival and danced round him noisily in spite of his mistress’s rebuke. He was a small smooth-haired yellow mongrel, spry and wiry on thin legs. Campion put out a hand and he offered a paw instantly. Campion took it and laughed.

  ‘George, don’t be a fool. Lie down! He’s absurd, isn’t he?’

  The woman was laughing as she spoke and Campion glanced up to see that her eyes were swimming. She turned away to the mantelshelf and brought back cigarettes and matches, waiting on her visitor with the complete lack of self-consciousness of a nurse or a teashop waitress.

  He found himself fumbling for a case to offer her at the moment when she held a lighted match to his cigarette.

  The room in which they stood reflected the outside of the building. The floor was covered with imitation red and grey tiles and shone like a ship’s deck. The dark oak furniture was ordinary and unpretentious. There was a divan under the windows and a comfortable chesterfield, flanked by two chintz-covered chairs by the fire.

  Teddie Dell drew up the largest and most comfortable chair.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, indicating it, and he obeyed her.

  Mr Campion, the most unassuming of men, did not imagine for a moment that her solicitude for his comfort, her tacit acceptance of the fact that his ease was all-important, was due in any way to his personal charm. Teddie Dell, he realized, was behaving as she always had and always would behave, since she belonged to that most ill-used sisterhood, some of them wives, some of them mothers, and all of them lovers, who really believe that there is in the mere quality of manhood something magnificent and worthy to be served.

  ‘You were pointed out to me at the inquest and I heard you were interested in the case,’ she said, seating herself opposite him a
nd holding one hand up to the fire to shield her face from the blaze. ‘I don’t want to go to the police for obvious reasons. He wouldn’t have liked it and she’s only a kid, isn’t she, and mixed up with nice people who don’t understand this sort of thing. So I went round to your place. When I saw her come up with you, I thought I’d better slip off. She’s never heard of me, you see.’

  Mr Campion nodded. He was wondering irrelevantly what Teddie Dell thought she meant by ‘nice people’.

  ‘It’s been on my mind,’ she continued. ‘He came here when he left the office on the Thursday and the police don’t know that. I wanted to ask someone about it and find out if it was any good me telling. He kept me a secret from his family for fourteen years and I didn’t see any point in it all coming out now if it wouldn’t help.’

  ‘Fourteen years?’ said Mr Campion involuntarily.

  Her eyes rested upon him for a moment.

  ‘We met in the war, in France,’ she said. ‘I’ve had this place since ’23.’

  Her glance left his face and travelled round the yellow walls and there was an indefinable expression in her eyes.

  ‘I never thought he’d marry,’ she went on abruptly. ‘But he was right: it didn’t make any difference. That’s why I was sorry for the kid. That’s no marriage for a girl. I suppose she got hold of the young cousin and egged him on and teased him till he went out of his mind – although I don’t know why they think he did it. My dear old boy had a lot of other enemies – ooh, he had a temper –!’

  She broke off. Her eyes were a blank and her mouth very hard.

  Mr Campion looked at the dog who lay upon the hearthrug, his nose between his paws and his ears cocked. Gradually he became aware of other things: a small silver golf trophy on the dresser and a pair of slippers, grey with age and long discarded, stuffed behind the coal-box, which was also a fireside seat.

  ‘Was Mr Brande here very long on the Thursday?’

  He put the question diffidently but the woman gave him her whole attention at once.

  ‘No, he couldn’t stay. That often happened. He was such a busy man. I suppose they’ll miss him at that office. He held the business together, didn’t he?’

  She spoke wistfully and for a moment Mr Campion was able to take the impulsive, excitable, slightly ridiculous Paul at the dead man’s own valuation. The woman was still speaking.