‘Oh, no, don’t you go. Jimmy said you weren’t to. Can’t you phone him?’ Her anxiety made her appeal unexpectedly vehement and he smiled at her.
‘I don’t think so. Lugg’s a good chap, but it’s a major operation to shift him. Rather like transporting an elephant. We’ll be back tonight.’
He hurried out of the room before she could speak again and dropped in on Uncle William, who was still napping, the empty decanter at his side.
‘Keep an eye on the ladies? Certainly, my boy,’ he said, blinking rosily. ‘Must have overslept. I’m gettin’ old. Terrible thought. You seem pleased with yourself.’ He stretched out his plump toes like a cat and hiccuped discreetly. ‘What d’you want me to do? Only got to command.’
Campion considered ‘If you have a chance, talk to Eve,’ he said. ‘Find out where she’s been all her life, what she’s interested in and what her ambitions are. If she cares to talk about her childhood encourage it.’
‘Eve, eh?’ Uncle William’s bright blue eyes were interested.
‘A sulky little miss if ever I saw one. Don’t understand these new young women. Too much below the surface for my taste.’
He got up.
‘Don’t like women who sit about brooding,’ he said. ‘Never did. Still, I’ll do what I can. Anything in particular you’d like to know?’
‘No. But nineteen-twenty is the crucial year.’
‘The child was hardly born!’ Uncle William objected.
‘I know. But she may be able to tell you about the family,’ said Mr Campion, and as he went out to find the Lagonda he thought it very significant that the only thing that Benny Konrad should have taken from Chloe Pye’s handbag, since he himself had examined it early that morning, should have been a cheap silver wrist-watch with a broken strap. The watch had interested him when he had looked at it because of the inscription on the inside of the case:
C. FROM J.
ALWAYS
1920.
12
EX-INSPECTOR BLEST set his glass on Mr Campion’s desk and reached for a cigarette from the silver box beside it. The study in the Bottle Street flat was warm and quiet. Outside the blue dusk was beginning to fall over the city and from Piccadilly the quiet snoring of the traffic came soothingly up to them.
The ex-Inspector was a large sandy man with raw red ears and boundless good nature lurking shyly behind a defensive bluster. At the moment his pride was in the process of slow recovery.
‘I don’t mind working with you or even for you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t care for him going over my head. That’s all. He’s a queer sort of chap, isn’t he? I don’t really like him. Too “I’m-so-busy-get-out-of-my-light”. If he’s overworked, why doesn’t he take a job his own size? I’ve got no time for blokes who are too busy to live. I was going round to see him when you phoned me. What’s he done now? Run over one of his own actresses? Reading between the lines, it sounded like suicide to me. What was her trouble? Love again? Why these women keep killing themselves for love I don’t know. Have you ever noticed the only men who ever kill themselves for love are farm labourers? It’s a fact. You watch the newspapers. It’s having such a long time to brood, I suppose. Well, here’s to you.’
He took up his glass again and Mr Campion, venturing to assume their reconciliation complete, came gently to the matter in hand.
‘So it was a charwoman?’ he began. ‘What variety? Pail, brush, flat cap and curl-papers, or just somebody’s nice old aunt in her shopping second-best?’
‘The last, I’m afraid.’ Blest was despondent. ‘The kids at the messenger office remember that the flowers were brought in by an old woman. When I pressed them they said she might have been a char, but whether she had on a brown raincoat or a black artificial fur they do not know. One kid says he remembers a large safety-pin showing, but more he can’t say. The chap in the desk can’t remember anything at all. Not very helpful, is it? That’s about all I’ve done, and there’s been more work in it than you’d think. I had to find the right office first.’
He surveyed his feet without affection.
‘Mr Campion,’ he said suddenly, ‘I don’t want you to be offended, but I’ve had an idea. Do you think there’s a chance this fellow Sutane is having us on a string? I mean, it’s not going to turn into a publicity stunt on us, is it? You’re sure there is something up?’
Campion sat looking in front of him, his lean face unusually grave. In his mind’s eye he saw Chloe Pye lying by the side of the lane, the dreadful irregularity of the line of her head and the tear across her breast, and he remembered her sitting on Sock’s knee, her haggard face alight with a vivacity which must in youth have been so very charming.
‘Oh, lord, yes, there’s something up,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘Something serious?’ Blest cocked a curious eye at him and he pulled himself up guiltily.
‘Sutane is being persecuted,’ he said. ‘There is a campaign going on against him. I’ve told you about the uninvited party. That was genuine. There are other things, too. Some I don’t follow at all. But from a first look round I think the cause of the trouble is fairly evident. There’s a small-part man in the show called Benny Konrad. He’s the fellow you want.’
‘Konrad? I’ve seen him. Really! Well, now, I shouldn’t be surprised.’ Blest wagged his head and looked worldly. ‘Very likely. He’s a dancer, too, of sorts, isn’t he? Now you come to mention it, this is the type of thing they get up to, those little chaps. Petty. Got a mean streak in ’em. Anything to go on?’
‘Not much. What I have I’ll give you.’ Mr Campion was speaking cautiously. ‘I know he’s insanely jealous of Sutane. He was going to take the leading part tonight, and when he was disappointed he practically wept. Then yesterday evening he was seen down the end of the lane that leads from the house. He swore he hadn’t been there with quite unnecessary vehemence. That was just after the party, you see, and I happened to notice that just after dinner he went upstairs and came down wearing a key chain. This evening I drove out on to the lower road on my trip up here and I found what I thought I should. There’s an A.A. phone-box on the road about a hundred yards from the mouth of the lane. He must have sneaked out to phone, not wishing to use the one in the house. It’s not much, I know; but it’s a little lead. He’s got an accomplice.’
The ex-Inspector frowned. ‘It could be,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a foothold, anyway. What’s his idea? Just spite or has he got any plan?’
Mr Campion studied his finger nails.
‘I’ve got an unpleasant mind,’ he said, ‘but it occurs to me that if Sutane had a nervous breakdown Konrad is his understudy. If a man’s overworked there’s nothing like a spot of persecution to send him over the edge. This fellow may feel he’s being kept under by Sutane.’
‘Huh!’ Blest sounded pleased. ‘That’s a help, I won’t deny it,’ he said. ‘I’ll get hold of the brightest kid from the bureau and take him round to have a look at this fellow’s char – or not?’
‘Yes, do, only be careful. Don’t start the hare running. I don’t think you’ll find it as simple as that either. Konrad lives in a service flat at Marble Arch.’
Mr Campion was in his most diffident mood. He had no wish to teach his grandmother to suck eggs and all, but said so in as many words.
‘I fancy he has a friend, you know,’ he went on at last.
‘Some earnest soul about his own age, or a little older, who burns to see the lad succeed. This is probably his handwriting.’
Blest took the invitation card that Councillor Baines had so thoughtfully preserved and his red face brightened.
‘Full of ideas, aren’t you?’ he said appreciatively. ‘Got his address?’
Campion shook his head.
‘No. I don’t even know if he exists. But if Konrad is responsible for these little attacks on Sutane – and I think he must be, you know — then he obviously has an accomplice, if only to write these invitations.’
He paused and went on considerin
gly.
‘The man I have in mind is youngish, over-interested in Konrad’s career, and a silly hysterical type generally. The city’s full of them. It may take you a bit of time to find the man you want, but Konrad is a man who goes in for fans. I should look up the secretary of this Speedo Club he sponsors.’
The ex-Inspector rose. His enthusiasm had revived.
‘That’s about it,’ he said, tucking the card into his wallet. ‘I’m grateful to you, I admit it. This accomplice is taking shape before my eyes. We’ll get him, although the chances are Sutane won’t prosecute. These private clients never do.’
He sighed for the great days of his professional career and looked about for his hat.
‘If I can get a tie-up between the accomplice and the char, then between Konrad and the accomplice, we’re sitting pretty,’ he remarked.
Campion leant across the desk. His eyes were narrowed and he seemed absorbed in the blotting paper beneath his hand. Looking at him, the ex-Inspector considered privately that he looked less of an ass than he had ever seen him. There was an unusual purposefulness in his bent shoulders and in the poise of his lowered head.
‘I say, Blest –’ he spoke with studied casualness, ‘– I don’t know if all this stuff is sound. It’s just my honest opinion at the moment and you’re very welcome to it. In return I want every scrap of information you can collect about these people, however irrelevant it may seem. And as a favour to me, don’t let anyone suspect you’re working on them.’
‘Oh?’ Blest’s interest was revived again and he paused encouragingly. ‘Anything you say,’ he added after a moment or so. ‘Anything you say.’
Still Campion did not confide and the detective applied a gentle pressure.
‘Spotted anything big?’ he inquired wistfully, something of an elderly Golden Labrador in his expression.
Campion looked up and laughed.
‘Rats in the house,’ he said. ‘There’s something going on there. Quite a lot I don’t understand at all.’
Somewhat to his surprise the ex-policeman understood him instantly.
‘That’s a way of putting it,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Rats in the house. Lumme, you don’t half know when you’ve got ’em, do you? We had a flat in the City once. Lock the doors, bung up every hole with glass, and yet you couldn’t even turn round without feeling something dirty that didn’t like you was watching the back of your neck. Rats in the house! You’ll be going down again then?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Campion spoke soberly and Blest laid an unexpectedly fatherly hand on his shoulder.
‘Take a tip from an old pro and don’t feel it personally,’ he said. ‘That’s always the trouble with us. We come up against nice people, people we can understand and enjoy a drink with, and then out comes the dirty linen and it gets us down if we aren’t careful. Once we start thinking about right and wrong and extenuating circumstances we’re sunk. Take it from me.’
He drew back, a little embarrassed by his own homily.
‘Hullo?’ he said.
‘Front-door latch. Lugg coming in.’
Campion glanced across the room.
‘He was out gallivanting when I arrived. He didn’t expect me before the morning.’
Blest chuckled. ‘You’ll get the sack from that chap one of these days,’ he said. ‘Quite the aged family retainer now, isn’t he? What does he weigh?’
‘Seventeen stone and eight pounds, and proud of it. I’d recognise your little pipe anywhere, Inspector Smart,’ observed a sad, thick voice from the hallway. ‘Don’t go before I hang me coat up. I’d like a look at your face again. Just to look at it.’
The last words were followed by a minor disturbance which shook the walls a little and Mr Lugg billowed grandly into the room, his large white face wearing an unusually friendly expression.
‘’Ullo,’ he said, eyeing his employer with truculent nonchalance. ‘I thought you was stayin’ till Tuesday. Got yourself mixed up in a suicide now, I see. People lay theirselves open to somethink when they ask you down for a week-end, don’t they? ’E’s a ’arbinger of catastrophe,’ he added, smiling at Blest. ‘Take ’im to the pictures and someone’s took ill behind yer.’
Campion eyed him bitterly.
‘He’s a conscious clown,’ he said. ‘The life and soul of his pub in the mews. Well, I can rely on you then, Blest, can I?’
‘You can. And thank you.’ The ex-Inspector shook hands. ‘So long, Dirigible,’ he added, prodding the newcomer. ‘Don’t ask me. Look it up.’
He went over to the door, but Lugg was before him, his short arms stiff at the sides of his black coat.
‘This way, sir, if you please,’ he said with dignity. ‘Mind the rug or you’ll break your neck. Good day, sir … and next time you come ’ere ’ave some gloves so I can give ’em to you like a Christian. So long.’
He closed the hall door and it was some little time before he returned, coatless and undoing his winged collar.
‘That’s better,’ he remarked, regarding the strip of starched linen. ‘That won’t do again. I use one every time I go out nowadays. I was askin’ my friends about laundries. Ours doesn’t seem any worse than most, if that’s any comfort to you.’ He opened a drawer in the bureau and looked thoughtfully at its contents.
‘We’ll ’ave to buy some new collars,’ he said. ‘What do you feel like for supper? I’m ’aving me old tinned ’errings. Per’aps you’d better run out to your club.’
Campion got up. ‘You pack,’ he said. ‘I’ve lent you.’
The ponderous form in the vast black trousers and the tight white shirt remained bent over the open drawer. There was a moment of uncomprehending silence.
‘Wot?’ said Mr Lugg at last.
‘I’ve lent you. You’re to be Mrs Sutane’s butler – God help her – for a day or so, until she can get another man.’
Mr Lugg straightened his back and surveyed his employer with steady dignity. His small black eyes were cold and unfriendly.
‘You’re barmy,’ he said. ‘I’m no butler. I’m a gent’s ’elp.’
‘Well then, learn a new trade.’ Campion took out his wallet and studied the card he had taken from it. ‘I’m going out now and when I come back I want my things packed for a week and yours too. Not in the same bag. Have them at the foot of the stairs and be waiting yourself. We’re going down to the country tonight.’
‘Country?’ echoed Lugg in a voice of mutiny. ‘Butler in the country? You’re snuffing round another crime, I suppose? I wish you’d drop this private narking of yours. You’re getting old for it, for one thing. It’s not smart any more. It’s old-fashioned and in most people’s opinion rather low. I’m sorry to ’ave to tell yer like this but that’s ’ow I see it. My friends think you’re very vulgar to allow ourselves to get mixed up with crime. Crime’s gorn back to its proper place – the gutter – and I for one am glad of it.’
He was silent for a moment or so and evidently decided on the other tack.
‘I was goin’ to suggest we travel, you and me,’ he said.
‘Travel?’ Campion was temporarily detracted from his own hasty preparations.
‘Mr Watson’s gent is goin’ on a sea trip on ’is yacht,’ murmured Mr Lugg with crafty casualness. ‘A very refined type of person one meets, he says, and the motion of the boat is not disturbin’ after the first day or so.’
His employer regarded him with distaste.
‘You make my flesh crawl,’ he said earnestly. ‘When you were a ticket-of-leave man –’
‘’Ere – ’old ’ard!’ Mr Lugg became both human and reproachful. ‘Be a gent! Some things we don’t bring up if we’re decent. I’ll do anything you ask me in reason, you know that, but I don’t ’ave to be blackmailed into it. I’m glad to see you do look a bit ashamed. You had ought to.’
‘I was going to say that in those days I found you infinitely more attractive,’ said Campion, gathering up the shreds of his dignity.
‘More sh
ame on you, then.’ Lugg was not suppressed. ‘I’ve bettered myself, my lad, and don’t you forget it. What’s this noo silly idea of yours now? I’m to take a job as a butler and keep me eyes peeled, I suppose? That’s not very nice in itself, is it? – getting into people’s houses and nosin’ about. It’s a low, mean sort of trick and an old one. Still. I’ll do it for you. I’ll be obligin’. I’m to be a detective.’
‘You’re to be a butler,’ said Campion coldly. ‘An ordinary butler. You’re to do your work and to give satisfaction. And believe me you won’t have time for anything else. Now for heaven’s sake shut up and get on with the packing.’
He moved towards the door. Mr Lugg sat down heavily.
‘It’s madness,’ he said. ‘You’ve never seen a real butler: I ’ave. You’re lakes! Where am I goin’?’
‘White Walls, where I’ve been staying. It’s a big house with a lot of people in it. The Sutanes own it. Jimmy Sutane, the dancer.’
‘Oh, the Sutanes …’ said Mr Lugg, and his small black eyes became crafty. ‘There’s somethin’ chick about the stage,’ he added unexpectedly. ‘Per’aps I’ll come after all. I don’t mind what I do so long as it’s not common. Right you are, I’ll pack. It’ll mean wearin’ a coat all day, I suppose?’
‘It will. And it’ll mean keeping your mouth shut.’ Campion’s tone was final. Lugg sighed.
‘All right, Cocky,’ he said. ‘I’ll do you credit. Where are you orf to now?’
Campion glanced at the card in his hand.
‘To call upon a lady.’
‘Reelly?’ Lugg was sarcastic. ‘Give ’er my love!’
‘I can’t,’ said Mr Campion. ‘She’s dead.’
Lugg guffawed. ‘Take ’er some flahs then, smarty,’ he said. ‘And stay out fer a bit. I’ve got to ’ave my meal before I pack.’
13
THE warm air, foetid with the vapours from the canal, came gustily down the wide road, bringing with it a cloud of stinging dust and the rustle of paper and prematurely-fallen leaves on the pavement.
Through the vase-shaped pillars of the balustrade the gleam of grey-and-gold water was visible and below, on the tow-path, a horse plodded, its feet heavy on the clay.
Dancers in Mourning Page 15
