Flowers For the Judge

by Margery Allingham

  ‘We were going to have a bit of dinner and then he was going to read. We didn’t go out much together since he got so well known. I didn’t ask him to take me; I’m not a fool. But he came in just about four and said he couldn’t stay, so I made him a cup of tea and he went. I wondered why he didn’t ring up on the Sunday, but on the Monday I saw the papers.’

  Her voice wavered on the last word but she controlled it magnificently, out of deference, Mr Campion felt, to the presence of a stranger.

  ‘Do you know where he went when he left here?’ he inquired.

  ‘I know where he said he was going and there was no point in him lying. Besides, he never did to me. We knew each other too well. He said, “I’m so sorry I can’t stay, Ted. I’ve got to go down to fetch a key from Camden Town of all places, and then I’ve got to dash back and slip into the British Museum.” I asked him if there was any chance of him dropping in later but he said, “No luck, I’m going to be busy to-night. I’ll ring you Sunday.”’

  Her voice ceased and she moved her position slightly so that her face was in the shadow. Mr Campion felt he dared intrude no more.

  ‘It’s been very kind of you,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I’ll let you know, of course, if I think you ought to come forward, but it’s quite possible that it won’t be at all necessary – if you don’t want to.’

  She got up, raising herself wearily as if her bones were unusually heavy.

  ‘Why should I?’ she said. ‘It’s not as if he were ill. He’s dead.’

  The dog rose and yawned and stretched himself, only to lie down again, his nose between his forepaws. The room was growing dark and the firelight flickered over the bright floor and was reflected in some little bits of brass on the dresser. There was comfort in the place and an utterly unbearable sense of waiting. Mr Campion hurried.

  Teddie Dell escorted him to the door.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch with you,’ he promised and paused. Paul had not died penniless and Campion had a strong sense of justice. ‘Forgive me if I am saying the wrong thing,’ he ventured, ‘but are you all right for cash?’

  She smiled and there were so many varying emotions in her expression that he only understood that she appreciated his thoughtfulness.

  ‘Better let her have it,’ she said. ‘There isn’t much. He spent like a lunatic. It would be charity too. I haven’t any rights.’

  She was silent for a moment and he had a very vivid impression of her, square and sturdy in her little painted home, the dog peering round her skirts.

  ‘We loved each other,’ she said and her voice was as proud and forlorn as high tragedy itself.

  Mr Campion came away.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A Craftsman of Camden Town

  ‘WOULD IT BE possible, Lugg,’ inquired Mr Campion delicately, ‘for you to forget for a moment this respectability to which you are not accustomed and delve into the past?’

  Mr Lugg, who was taking off his collar because it was only his employer whom he had admitted, kept his back turned to the speaker and his attention fixed upon the drawer into which he was tucking this badge of refinement. The white roll of fat at the back of his neck looked smug and obstinate. Mr Lugg had not heard.

  ‘I suppose if I asked you to come off it –’ Mr Campion began sarcastically.

  Mr Lugg swung round, his small black eyes unconvincingly innocent.

  ‘I shouldn’t understand what you meant,’ he said placidly, and returned to the drawer. ‘Some of the fellows down at the Mew wear butterfly collars and some wear straight,’ he observed over his shoulder. ‘I ’aven’t made up me mind for good yet. Butterflies let yer neck through, but they’re apt to look untidy.’

  Mr Campion made no response to this implied question. Instead he put another.

  ‘Lugg,’ he said, ‘if a man who had something to hide went to Camden Town to get a key, who would he go to?’

  Surprise took Mr Lugg unawares.

  ‘Lumme,’ he said, ‘old Wardie Samson! He’s not still at it, is ’e? Must be well over a ’undred. I remember ’im in my dad’s day.’

  This family reminiscence was cut short by what was no doubt a recollection of the rigid society of the hostelry in the ‘Mew’.

  ‘A very low person,’ said the new Mr Lugg. ‘Dishonest, erely.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Lugg wriggled uncomfortably.

  ‘I visited ’im as a lad with my father,’ he said at last, ‘but I shouldn’t think ’e was the party to which you was referrin’.’

  ‘Well, take off that awful coat and get in the car, which is downstairs,’ said Mr Campion. ‘We’re going to see him.’

  ‘Not me.’ Mr Lugg was defiant. ‘I’ll give you ’is address if you like, but I’m not coming with you. It’s more than me reputation’s worth. You never know ’ow a thing like this might tell two or three years hence when your relation ’as gorn the way all good relations should go and you and me are established in our rightful place. What sort of a position should I be in if one of the ’ousemaids or per’aps another gentleman who’s come up in the world should say, “Surely I saw you in Camden Town, Mr Lugg?” What sort of position should I be in then?’

  ‘Even if I become a Duke,’ said Mr Campion brutally, ‘the chances of you becoming a respectable person are remote – or at any rate, I shouldn’t count on it. Come on. Hurry.’

  Before the authority in the tone Mr Lugg’s defiance turned to pathos.

  ‘What’s the good of me tryin’ to better meself if you keep draggin’ me down?’ he said. ‘I’ve put the old life be’ind me. I’ve forgot it, see?’

  ‘Well, this is where you do a spot of remembering,’ insisted Mr Campion heartlessly. ‘And don’t spoil everything by trying to impress your old pal with your new vulgarity, you fat oaf.’

  Mr Lugg bridled. ‘That’s a bit too thick, that is,’ he said. ‘You’re destroying my ambition, that’s about what you’re doing. Mucking up me perishin’ soul, see? All right, I’ll come with you.’

  They drove for some time in silence, but as the wealthier parts of the city were left behind and they slid into the noisy poverty of the Hampstead Road some of Mr Lugg’s gloom deserted him.

  ‘It’s like old times, isn’t it?’ he observed.

  Campion accepted the olive branch.

  ‘We’ve got a delicate job ahead,’ he said. ‘I suppose your friend Wardie would give away a client if he was dead?’

  ‘Wardie doesn’t give anything,’ Lugg spoke reminiscently. ‘Doesn’t know the meanin’ of the word “tick” either. Still, we can but try ’im. I ’aven’t seen ’im for ten years, remember.’

  ‘When you were a lad,’ said Mr Campion unkindly.

  ‘When I was one of the lads,’ said Mr Lugg, whose spirits were soaring. ‘’E was a clever old bloke, Wardie,’ he continued. ‘Give ’im an impression one day and in a little while ’e’d drop you a line and down you’d go to find a better key than the original. ’E did name plates, too – not for the same people. Only one thing against ’im, ’e was slow. Lumme, ’ow slow that man was! So busy making snide ’e never ’ad time for honest work. Used to make lovely ’alf-crowns. Made ’em out of the tops of soda-water siphons. That metal’s just the right weight, y’know.’

  Mr Campion showed polite interest. ‘Was he pinched?’

  ‘Wardie? No. He was too careful. ’E never passed ’em. Wouldn’t let any of ’is relations ’andle ’em either. Used to sell ’em – so much a gross – to one of these lads in the Ditch. ’E’s a handy man, if you take me. I’m surprised at ’im still working, especially for outsiders. It’s round ’ere, guv’nor. Better leave the car at a garridge. It’s no good parkin’ it. We don’t want to turn up at Wardie’s lookin’ like bloomin’ millionaires. Might give ’im ideas.’

  They left the car and continued on foot. For one who professed to have left this particular world behind him Mr Lugg found his way among the maze of small streets with remarkable precision.

 
; ‘’Ere we are,’ he said at last. ‘Now, look casual but not ’alf-witted. I don’t want ’im to think I’ve turned up with a Killarney.’

  Mr Campion, who in the course of a long association had come to realize that living up to Mr Lugg was an impossibility, remained much as usual and they paused in the narrow, dusty little road littered with paper bags and kitchen refuse while Lugg went through an elaborate pantomime of noticing a small shop some few doors down on the opposite side.

  ‘Why, there’s Mr Samson’s joint!’ he said, with theatrical astonishment. ‘I wonder if ’e’s still alive? I’d better go and look ’im up. Just the same! The ole place ’asn’t changed since I was a boy.’

  At first sight the Samson emporium was not impressive. It consisted of a very narrow door and a small window. Both were incredibly dirty and, while one revealed an even dingier interior, the other displayed a collection of old iron ranging from nails to the back of bedsteads, a notice which announced that shoe leather could be purchased within, and a quantity of cheap new razor-blades. There was also, Mr Campion noticed, a hank of bass, two large bales of twine and a skein of very thick elastic labelled ‘For Catapults’. This last was crossed out very lightly, and ‘Model Aeroplanes’ substituted in wavering pencil.

  With the nonchalance of a loiterer observing a policeman, Mr Lugg lounged into the shop, beckoning Mr Campion to follow him with a jerk of his shoulder.

  It took them some moments to accustom their eyes to the darkness. The atmosphere, which was composed of a nice blend of rust, leather and Irish stew, took a bit of assimilating also, and Campion felt his feet sink into a sand of dust and iron filings.

  There was a movement in the shop, followed by a snuffling, and presently a bright young man with a white face, dusty yellow hair and an inquiring manner, sauntered towards them. Mr Lugg showed surprise.

  ‘Business changed ’ands?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘I come reely to inquire after an old friend, Mr Samson.’

  The young man eyed Mr Lugg from the toes of his boots to the top of his hat.

  ‘One of the old brigade, aren’t yer?’ he said cheekily, his narrow blue eyes astute and appraising.

  Mr Lugg was momentarily taken off his balance.

  ‘’Ere, what’re you gettin’ at?’ he said, taking a menacing step forward. ‘When I want any lip from two penn’orth of string-bag I’ll ask for it.’

  In spite of a certain flabbiness induced by high life, Mr Lugg was still a formidable opponent, and he was not alone. The young man retreated.

  ‘Gran’dad’s in the back,’ he said. ‘If you’ll tell me your name I’ll go and see if he remembers you.’

  ‘Gran’dad?’ said Mr Lugg, a repulsively sentimental smile appearing on his great white face. ‘Don’t tell me you’re little Alfie? Not little Alfie what I danced up an’ down on me knee?’

  ‘Charlie,’ said the young man, without enthusiasm.

  ‘Charlie! That was it. Rosie’s boy – little Rosie. ’Ow’s your mother, son?’

  ‘’Aven’t seen ’er since she went off with a rozzer,’ said the young man, with that complete carelessness which is more chilling than any rebuke. ‘I’ll go and tell Gran’dad. What’s yer name?’

  ‘Just tell ’im Maggers is ’ere,’ said Lugg, who was beginning to enjoy himself for the first time, Mr Campion felt, for years. ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No. You stay ’ere,’ said Charlie, with the first show of animation he had yet exhibited, and disappeared into the darkness.

  Mr Lugg chuckled in a fatherly fashion.

  ‘I remember ’im being born,’ he said, with inexplicable pride. ‘’Ear what ’e called me? – “Old Brigade”! That’s ’cos ’e knows I’m after a key. ‘Is pals use oxy-acetylene. Nasty dangerous stuff. When that come on the market I knew my time was over.’

  ‘’E’ll see yer. Come on.’

  Charlie did not emerge from the shadows to make this announcement and they groped forward in the direction of his voice. After passing through a living-room, into which the iron filings had percolated in the course of years, and which was apparently the fountain-head of the Irish stew, they came quite unexpectedly into the bright light of day. Their way led across a minute yard, dirty to a degree unknown by most users of the word, and into a small shed festooned with old bicycle tyres.

  Seated at a bench was a large blank-faced old man, bald as an egg and clad in a very loose shirt and surprisingly tight trousers, whose original colour could only be surmised. The round face was at once mild and cunning and possessed the serenity of a Buddha.

  ‘Wardie!’ said Mr Lugg, enraptured, adding a little inopportunely: ‘I thought you was dead.’

  The old man smiled enigmatically as he held out a hand, and it occurred to Mr Campion that he was deaf.

  ‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, and his voice had a husky, secretive quality.

  Lugg deserted Campion. He went round the back of the bench and seated himself beside the old man.

  ‘I’m Maggers, Wardie,’ he said, thrusting a mighty arm round the other man’s shoulders. ‘You remember me? I’m the fellow what was sweet on yer second daughter – the one what died. I’m coming back to yer, aren’t I?’

  ‘Lugg,’ said the old man suddenly. ‘Young Lugg.’

  They shook hands again solemnly and with great sentiment.

  ‘Can you ’ear me?’ said Mr Lugg, rumbling into one of the great ears.

  ‘Course,’ said the old man. ‘’Eard you all the time. Didn’t know oo you were. Oo’s yer friend?’

  ‘Young fellow I go round with,’ said Mr Lugg shamelessly. ‘You know me, Wardie: I wouldn’t tell you wrong. Me and my pal we want a bit of ’elp from you.’

  He cocked an eye at his employer.

  ‘You tell ’im, Bert.’

  Mr Campion explained his business as well as he could.

  ‘It’s about a key,’ he said. ‘Lugg and I wondered if you could tell us anything about a key which a man picked up down here in Camden Town on Thursday, the twenty-eighth of January last. It’s a long time ago, I know, but I thought you might remember. He was a well-dressed fellow, forty-fiveish, dark, and spoke well.’

  Wardie Samson shook his large round head.

  ‘I don’t know anything about keys,’ he said. ‘We don’t sell ’em.’

  Lugg burst into a roar of unnatural laughter.

  ‘You’re takin’ Bert for a ’tec!’ he said. ‘That’s a good one, that is! Old Bert a split! That’ll be one to tell the boys!’

  Wardie’s inflamed and rheumy eyes shifted nervously.

  ‘Can’t tell yer about a key,’ he said. ‘Don’t know.’

  Mr Campion took a chance.

  ‘It’s private information I want,’ he said. ‘I’m willing to pay for it and I’ll give you any assurance you like that you will never be questioned about it again. I am a detective, if you like, but I’m not a police detective. I’m not interested in your business, and all I want is a description, or, better still, a mould, of a key which the man I am interested in had made in this district. That’s all I want. After I walk out of this shop you can swear blind you’ve never seen me before. Lugg won’t act as a witness.’

  The old man, who had been watching Campion carefully throughout this recital, seemed impressed.

  ‘What date did you say, guv’nor? The twenty-eighth of January? Seems to me I read an interestin’ bit in the paper about a gentleman who got his on that day. It wouldn’t be him you was interested in, would it?’

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Mr Lugg heartily. ‘Now you’re bein’ sensible. We’re just blokes oo’ve come to an old pal for a bit of ’elp. As for that chap, ’e can’t buy anything off you again, can ’e? ’E’s in ’is box.’

  Mr Samson seemed to have decided that his visitors were on the level, but he retained his caution of voice and expression, which seemed to be habitual.

  ‘I sent ’im a letter telling ’im it was ready and ’e come down right away. Said ’e’d
destroyed the letter for ’is own sake.’

  He cocked an eye at Campion, who nodded reassuringly.

  ‘He had. We came to you by chance. Have you destroyed the impression?’

  The old man nodded and seemed to debate within himself for a moment or so. Then, with a glance at Lugg that was almost affectionate, he opened a small drawer in the bench in front of him and, after rummaging in it for some time, produced a large, old-fashioned key. He threw it down in front of Campion.

  ‘Always make two for luck,’ he said, and the faintest suggestion of a smile flickered for an instant round his mouth.

  Another search in the drawer produced a dirty envelope. ‘Paul R. Brande,’ he spelt out awkwardly. ‘Twenty-three, Horsecollar Yard, Holborn, W.C.1.’

  Mr Campion took the key and Lugg waved him out of the shed.

  ‘Me and Wardie will fix this little matter up between us,’ he said magnificently.

  Mr Campion waited in the filth of the yard for some considerable time, and Lugg finally appeared.

  ‘Three pound ten,’ he said. ‘I know it’s a lot, but you ’ave to pay for these things.’

  Mr Campion parted with the money and presently, with the key safely stowed in his pocket, he once more approached the garage where the car was parked. As they settled down and Campion turned the Lagonda out into the Hampstead Road Lugg nudged him.

  ‘’Ere’s thirty-five shillings that belongs to you,’ he said. ‘I did a split with Wardie. It’s the worst of these dishonest people. They always expect you to live down to ’em.’

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Damned

  EVEN IF MR LUGG was as hurt as he looked when his employer dropped him at the corner of Regent Street, at least he refrained from referring to himself as a ‘worn-out glove’, an unsuitable simile of which he was very fond, having, so he said, read it somewhere and thought it ‘the ticket.’

  Campion went on alone to Horsecollar Yard. He had no desire to discuss his afternoon’s work with Gina, and was wondering how he could get into Number Twenty-three without disturbing her, John, or an inquisitive policeman when he observed a familiar figure striding out of the cul-de-sac.