Dancers in Mourning

by Margery Allingham

  ‘Among the three persons who lost their lives was thirty-two-year-old Benny Konrad, the London revue star, who had travelled to Boarbridge to meet members of a cycling club of which he was the President. Richard Duke, who was also killed, was a member of the cycling party. The third person to die was a porter.’

  Having given what it felt was the main story, the Telegram, in accordance with its custom, began again in fuller style.

  ‘Late yesterday morning, when the twelve-three from Birley had just pulled out and the slow up-train from Yarmouth, laden with summer travellers, was in the station, the quiet little country junction of Boarbridge was visited by an explosion so sudden and terrible that Mr Harold Phipps, the stationmaster, tells me that he has seen nothing like it since the War.

  ‘At the time, unfortunately, the down platform was crowded with visitors. Some forty members of a cycling club had foregathered there to welcome their President, Mr Benny Konrad, the revue star, who had come from London to take part in an annual celebration outing.

  ‘Mr Konrad, who was in cycling kit, wheeling his machine, a new gift from the club, was laughing and chatting with his friends when there was a sudden deafening explosion and the quiet station was reduced to a shambles of groaning men and women.

  ‘The glass in the roof, with which the platforms are sheltered, was shattered, as were many of the windows of the stationary train, and a number of the injuries were caused by splintered glass.

  ‘Two hand-trucks of milk-cans were being drawn by a porter at the time of the accident, and in the panic after the explosion these became strewn upon the line, adding considerably to the general confusion.

  ‘Doctors were rushed to the scene and the two small waiting-rooms were turned into temporary casualty stations. Trains on the line were held up for nearly an hour.

  ‘Tonight the cause of the disaster is still a complete mystery. The theory held by some that an infernal machine had been dropped by a passing aircraft has now been generally abandoned, although the stationmaster still stoutly adheres to that view. No one in the thriving little market town of Boarbridge noticed any aeroplane in the vicinity during the morning.

  ‘Railway officials are silent. The regulations regarding the conveyance of dangerous goods are very strict, but it is just possible that a parcel containing explosive matter may have escaped the vigilance of the authorities.

  ‘The mystery is deepened by the fact that Mr Phipps insists that both platforms were clear of goods parcels at the time of the accident, and the senior porter, Mr Edward Smith, who is prostrate from severe shock and superficial burns, assured me when I visited him in his cottage at Station Lane that he took nothing from the goods van of the down train save Mr Konrad’s bicycle, which was collected by its owner immediately on arrival.

  ‘In the circumstances the County Police made an instant decision to ask the official help of Scotland Yard experts, and last night Inspector Yeo of the Central Branch of the C.I.D. travelled to Boarbridge, bringing with him Major Owen Bloom and Mr T. P. Culvert, both of the War Office Research Department.

  ‘Last night it was understood that the incident is not thought to have been political in inspiration, but that possibility is not yet wholly ruled out.

  ‘The dead are: Benjamin Evelyn Konrad, thirty-two, dancer and revue star, Flat 17, Burnup House, W. I; Richard Edwin Duke, nineteen, 2, Bellows Court Road. S.E.21; Frederick Stiff, forty-three (porter), Queen’s Cottages, Layer Road, Boarbridge.’

  The list of the injured followed and made appalling reading. Five women, three children and seven men had received wounds of varying gravity, most of which could be accounted for by flying glass from the roof or carriage windows.

  Mr Campion put down the paper and stared blankly at the grey upholstery in front of him.

  The whole story seemed so utterly incredible that he read it through again carefully before he could attempt to assimilate it. He glanced at the other paper which the fat man in the corner was holding between himself and the world, and there also he caught a glimpse of the same story, so that his first wild notion that the Telegram had gone mad and invented the tale in a fit of wanton idiocy was brushed aside as it deserved.

  Gradually he accustomed himself to the facts. Konrad was dead, startlingly dead, blown to hell with his ridiculous bicycle and two other unfortunate mortals. Konrad, who until this moment had figured in his mind as a busy little self-seeker blithely scattering trouble broadcast in an attempt to achieve his own dubious ends, had been wiped out by an accident. Of all the forty million to whom the disaster might have occurred it had overtaken only three, and one of these had been Konrad. As a piece of irony he felt it surpassed itself. He did not take his eyes from the paper all the way to London.

  A small paragraph tucked away at the foot of the news story recorded that Konrad’s was the second violent death to occur in the cast of The Buffer within a fortnight, and mentioned as a coincidence that he had been present among the guests at Sutane’s house when Chloe Pye had met her tragic end.

  Campion was still startled and shocked when he arrived at Liverpool Street. He took a cab to the Junior Greys and was hesitating in the lounge, trying to decide if this strong impulse to phone Sutane was a wise one or the reverse, when he received a message from Scotland Yard.

  The note said briefly that Superintendent Stanislaus Oates would be glad if Mr Campion would make it convenient to call upon him at three o’clock that afternoon.

  In the ordinary way Campion was not a wavering or unduly apprehensive spirit, but he spent the half-hour before lunch and the hour after it in a restless, nervy mood which all but demoralised him.

  At five minutes to three he was walking down a long bare corridor which smelt vaguely of disinfectant behind a helmetless constable and a moment or so later had stepped forward to shake hands with the dour figure who had risen to greet him.

  His recent promotion had no more altered Superintendent Stanislaus Oates than had any of the previous steps in his career. He remained at heart the eager, solemn young countryman whose concentration and tenacity had first earned the commendation of a rural inspector nearly thirty-four years before.

  He was not an unfriendly man, but even Campion, who probably knew him better than anyone outside the Force itself, was never in danger of permitting familiarity to grow into amicable contempt.

  The Superintendent stood for a moment, his shoulders stooping and his pepper-and-salt head bent over the blotter on his desk.

  ‘Ah, Campion,’ he said. ‘Sit down, will you, mate?’

  The form of address was a relic of his Dorset days. All through his thirty-four years’ slow ascent through the service he had carefully suppressed it, but now that he had attained the peak and promise of his career he brought it out occasionally, a minor laxity permissible in one of his eminence.

  ‘Been away?’

  ‘Yes. To Kepesake. I spent the week-end with Guffy Randall and his wife. Do you mind?’

  ‘No. When did you go?’

  ‘Saturday morning.’

  ‘You’re staying at your club?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lugg’s away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘White Walls, near Birley. Jimmy Sutane’s house. Why?’

  Campion leant back in the visitor’s chair. He knew that his forehead was damp and wondered at himself. Presently he took out a handkerchief and sat looking at it.

  The Superintendent seated himself and rested his elbows on the desk. He had a sad, bony face and very interested grey eyes.

  ‘What do you know about Benny Konrad?’

  Suddenly Mr Campion felt more at ease.

  ‘Very little,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve been acting as honorary adviser to Blest on a private investigation which seemed to be leading towards him. That’s all. You’ve seen Blest, I suppose?’

  The policeman’s country eyes flickered with a brief smile.

  ‘Yes. We’ve seen Blest. Saw him last night
. He looked us up.’

  Mr Campion thought he had begun to understand and the sneaking, unnameable fear which had been nibbling at the back of his mind all the morning was allayed.

  ‘You’re consulting me, I take it?’ he said brightly. ‘It’s a great honour. I appreciate it.’

  Oates laughed, a dry little explosive sound expressing friendliness and good humour but no amusement. He was singularly seldom amused.

  ‘I’m questioning you in pursuance of my duties,’ he explained laboriously. ‘What was Konrad up to? Do you know?’

  ‘Up to?’ Campion echoed him blankly. ‘My dear man, why are we playing detectives? Come down to earth. You’ve seen Blest and so you know all Blest knows. I can’t tell you any more, old boy. That’s all there is to it. Konrad had been playing the fool round the theatre and he was on the verge of being found out. That’s the lot.’

  ‘Ah!’ The Superintendent seemed partially satisfied. ‘You’ve heard about the way he was killed?’

  ‘I’ve seen the papers. It seems to have been a nasty accident.’

  ‘Oh, it was.’ Oates was genuinely moved. ‘I went down myself last night and took a look at the place. Then I went on to the hospital and the mortuary. It was fearful. The mess was terrible. Women cut about with glass, you know, doctors digging splinters as long as my fingers out of them. The men who were killed were in a frightful condition. Konrad had a piece of metal blown clean through his head. It had dug a furrow you could put your wrist into clean through the top of his scalp. And the poor porter chap! I won’t make you uncomfortable with a description. They got a steel nut out of his stomach.’

  His pleasant dry voice ceased but he kept his eyes on Campion’s own.

  ‘It was fearful,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not a squeamish man myself, but the sight of that milk and blood and glass everywhere upset me; it made me feel sick. A very extraordinary and dreadful thing altogether,’ he finished with a touch of prim severity.

  Campion had remained silent throughout the harangue, his face growing more and more grave as his earlier apprehension returned.

  ‘I don’t quite see where all this is leading,’ he began cautiously. ‘I’m completely in the dark. I mean, the cause of the explosion had nothing to do with Konrad, surely?’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ The Superintendent wagged his distinguished head. ‘I’m not so sure at all. I don’t know if I ought to tell you, but the opinion here at the moment is that someone threw a bomb at the little blighter.’

  For the second time that day Mr Campion experienced that rarest of the emotions, genuine astonishment.

  ‘No …’ he said at last. ‘I don’t believe it. It’s incredible.’

  ‘Ah, you think so?’ Oates seemed disappointed. He looked down at his desk. ‘Major Bloom is coming along in fifteen minutes or so. He’s been at work on the evidence all day. I’m hoping he’ll have some definite information for us. So far we’ve been working on the few hints he could give us last night. From the first look round he told Yeo that in his opinion there was no doubt that the explosion originated roughly on the spot where Konrad was standing. They can tell you that, you know, these fellows, from the general direction of the damage. It’s very ingenious how they work it all out. There’s no guessing. It’s all very scientific. Yeo was particularly impressed.’

  ‘But –’ began Mr Campion, and was silent. ‘A bomb?’ he said at last. ‘What sort of a bomb?’

  ‘That’s what I’m waiting to find out,’ explained the Superintendent severely. ‘Something very efficacious. I’d like you to have seen that station, my lad. I wouldn’t have gone down there myself in the ordinary way, but Yeo and I are friends and the County Police sounded so excited on the phone that I couldn’t resist taking a peep. Yeo’s coming up at four for a conference. He’s been interviewing people down there all day.’

  In spite of his seriousness there was still a touch of the schoolboy about Oates, a certain naïve excitement which betrayed him every now and again. His work still fascinated him.

  ‘Now look here, Campion,’ he said, ‘you knew Konrad. Would you say he might have any secret political activities? We don’t get many bomb outrages over here, you know, and when we do they’re nearly always political or the efforts of lunatics – usually an unhealthy combination of the two. What would you say, now? Let’s have your frank opinion.’

  He spoke coaxingly and Mr Campion was frankly sorry not to be able to oblige him.

  ‘I’d say “No”,’ he said. ‘I can’t help it, but I would, definitely. He wasn’t a friend of mine, of course – I didn’t know him well – but no, no, I really couldn’t see him mixed up with politics of any sort. What an absolutely unbelievable thing to happen!’

  Oates leant back in his chair.

  ‘Mr Campion,’ he began with unusual formality, ‘I’ve known you for a long time and we’ve done a bit of work together. If you’re going to be in this affair I’d like you to work for us. I’m not saying that I don’t trust you, now. Don’t think that. But I want all the facts from you, and if you’re working for me then I know you won’t be working for anyone else behind my back. Consider yourself an expert called in on the case, just as the major is.’

  Having known the Superintendent for fifteen years, Campion was able to appreciate the effort such a decision had cost that logical and conventional policeman. He was properly impressed.

  ‘My dear chap, anything you like,’ he said lightly. ‘You know all I know at the moment. I was called in by Jimmy Sutane to help Blest in uncovering a sort of persecution campaign. I thought I saw Konrad was at the bottom of it, and I tipped Blest on to him. Then I rather lost interest and faded away. From what I saw of Konrad he certainly did not strike me as a likely candidate for public assassination. The only feasible explanation that occurs to me off hand is that your bomb-thrower was demented and mistook him for somebody else.’

  ‘Who else did he look like in a vest and cycling shorts?’ demanded Oates with practical curiosity.

  Campion shrugged his shoulders. Words were beyond him.

  ‘Mr Sutane was at his own house surrounded by his family twenty miles away when the explosion occurred,’ observed the Superintendent sadly. ‘We can be fairly sure who was on the down side of the station where Konrad stood, but some of the travellers on the up line may have escaped us.’

  Mr Campion blinked.

  ‘Didn’t anyone see someone throw the thing?’

  ‘No. No one’s come forward. Yeo’s working on that now.’ Oates leant across the desk and his unexpectedly youthful eyes were indignant. ‘Can you imagine any living person doing it, Campion?’ he demanded. ‘Scattering death or disfiguration among a crowd of innocent, helpless bodies on a country railway station? The man’s either hopelessly insane or a – a bad, dangerous fellow. We’ll have to lay our hands on him. There’s no two ways about it.’

  Campion smiled faintly at the ‘bad, dangerous fellow’. The Superintendent’s maidenly restraint was typical of him and bore no relation to the depth of his feelings. Stanislaus Oates had spent much of his life in the pursuit of murderers and had invariably delivered them into the hands of the public hangman with serene satisfaction whenever he had the opportunity. There were very few greys, in his view; only varying depths of black. He had once expressed a certain sympathy for Crippen, but only because the little doctor had permitted himself to succumb to temptation. Once Belle Elmore was dead Crippen was already half-hanged, and very properly so too in the gentle Oates’s opinion. Yet Crippen, Campion remembered, had been ‘a poor weak scoundrel’. The ‘bad, dangerous fellow’ was evidently in a different class altogether.

  Oates was not without softness, however, although he reserved his sympathy always for the right side.

  ‘There’s a young woman maybe going to lose a leg and a lad of eighteen with his face cut to ribbons in the hospital. If it had been a train accident I’d have been simply very sorry, but when it’s wanton, deliberate wickedness it makes me spiteful. It’s
a fact, now. We’ll have to get this fellow.’

  Campion glanced up.

  ‘The authorities are clamouring too, I suppose?’ he ventured.

  Oates smiled. ‘Yes, they’re nattering,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But they’ll have to wait for us. We can’t go worrying our heads about them when there’s work to be done.’

  His bland superiority was superb. Campion felt curiously comforted. In a world of conflicting loyalties it was a relief to find someone who could really put his finger, if only to his own satisfaction, on the exact spot where right ends and wrong begins.

  The Superintendent took a large flat watch from his waistcoat pocket and considered it.

  ‘Time for the major,’ he said. ‘Now I’m trusting you, mate, I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission. I’m the Superintendent of the Central Department of the C.I.D. and I can have what help I think fit. I want you to sit in that corner over there. You’ve been working on Konrad and you can work some more.’

  Mr Campion went over to the small hard chair obediently. There had never been any ceremony between them and Oates’s sublime conviction that an invitation to work for the police was the highest honour man could hope to receive was unanswerable. He sat down.

  Major Bloom was ushered in almost immediately and Mr Culvert, his assistant, came with him. The major was tall and heavy, with lumbering movements and eyes which peered shortsightedly from behind truly terrible steel-rimmed glasses. He shook hands with nervous affability and betrayed a pleasant Midland voice.

  Mr Culvert, his assistant, hovered round him deferentially. He was a small, neat young man, precise to the point of primness. His quiet, cultured voice contrasted with his chief’s burr as did his ease and self-assurance. Yet no one could have confused the master with the apprentice. Mr Culvert only too evidently considered that he was out in charge of his god, a fragile, breakable deity who was to be protected and placated in every way. They made an odd, knowledgeable pair.