Coroner's Pidgin

by Margery Allingham

  “I say, Mr. Campion . . .” But the thin man was already in the passage. He went upstairs with the coffee. Having begun on his small contribution towards the saving of Theodore’s life, he saw no reason why he should not finish it; but he was more angry than he had been for years. There was still no sign of Miss Chivers in the hall, and as he passed the closed door on the first floor he could hear the gentle drone of Lady Carados’s sweet, interminable voice behind it. He went on.

  On the next landing there were other sounds, and he tapped at the most promising door. It was opened immediately by Gee-gee Gold who seized the tray without a word, and turned back into the room with it. Mr. Campion followed him innocently.

  The livid Theo, wretched and exhausted, and wrapped in blankets, was staggering about the room on the arm of a middle-aged doctor in shirt-sleeves. He stared ominously at Campion but did not speak to him.

  Mr. Campion experienced a certain sympathy for Doctor Robson; it was evident he had not the temperament for adventures of this sort. Even now there was a hint of pompous importance in his manner, and his fiery eyes were outraged. Gee-gee was handling him cautiously but without making any real attempt to hide the fact. He bustled over with the coffee and stood holding out the pot, his head on one side and his beard cocked up enquiringly. The Doctor nodded irritably and took the cup while Gold poured out. It was all done in silence, and the moment the Doctor became preoccupied with his patient, Gold gripped Campion firmly by the arm and led him out on to the landing again.

  “I know you don’t mind,” he said in a whisper which might well have carried through the door, “but better to leave them at this stage. Bush is coming round all right. It’s an absolute miracle, but he is, thank God. Of course, he’ll have to see reason, but it’s going to be very difficult to persuade him.”

  “I don’t see why he should if he feels that way about it,” objected Mr. Campion.

  Gold stared at him in amazement. “But he can make a most frightful row,” he said.

  “So I should imagine, but I don’t see why he shouldn’t, do you?”

  “My dear man,” said Gee-gee pityingly. “We can’t have a row. After all, Johnny is who he is, isn’t he? I know it’s fashionable to pretend to ignore that, but one doesn’t really, does one? No, we can’t have Johnny involved in anything definitely unpleasant. That’s absurd. Johnny’s sans reproche. I’ll get this chap to see reason, but it’s not going to be a walkover. Doctors have got completely out of hand, these days. I’ll have to concentrate on him if you don’t mind. I’ll see you downstairs, shall I?”

  The last remark was not a question and he opened the door again. He spoke once more before he disappeared.

  “Thanks for the coffee. Awfully good of you. There’s not a lot of help in the kitchen, I’m afraid.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Mr. Campion briefly, and went downstairs.

  He picked up his hat on the way and walked quietly out of the house. He met no one, and was thankful. The darkness swallowed him as he struck south-west purposefully. Having reached a decision he felt relieved; this was the end of them all, as far as he was concerned. There was just one more thing that must be done and then he’d wash his hands of them.

  As he strode on through the misty darkness he tried to put the whole business out of his mind, but it was not so easy. After long years of practice he had developed a routine, and now, despite his inclinations, his brain persisted in carrying on quietly with the investigation. Every scrap of information which he had gathered in the twenty-four hours revolved before his inward eye, trying to slip into the pattern which was already forming. The discovery that Gold assumed automatically that Johnny was privileged beyond all the normal bounds of civilized behaviour, was one of these. It had been odd coming from him and had reminded Mr. Campion of an incident of his own youth when the nurse of the small friend who had just pushed him into the Round Pond, had turned to his own avenging Nanna, and had said in exactly the same tone of startled protest:

  “But he’s a Duke.”

  At the age of four and a quarter, Mr. Campion had taken a poor view of the excuse and did so now, with the added advantage of knowing that ninety-nine per cent of the world agreed with him. All the same, he found it interesting to note that the remaining one per cent still existed, and was at large. Another little piece of the jig-saw slid into place.

  It was at this point in his reflections that he realized that he was being followed again. His first reaction was exasperation. Of all the people who had presumed upon him in the past twenty hours, Pirri, he thought, had so far taken the prize. What on earth the wretched man thought he was doing was beyond Mr. Campion. He alone fitted nowhere into the picture which was slowly taking shape.

  He was not certain his present trailer was Pirri, but it seemed reasonable to suppose so. He exerted himself. He quickened his pace, stepped swiftly into the next alley, and after waiting in the darkness until the footsteps passed, came out again, crossed the road, and turned back the way he had come. The simple manœuvre appeared to be successful, and after a while he continued on his way.

  It was not quite so dark as it had been earlier in the evening; there was a moon somewhere behind the clouds, and a certain amount of greyish light shone through. He had reached the main road before he realized that the man was on his trail again. In the dusk Mr. Campion raised his eyebrows. His friend was not quite such a tyro after all. Still, there were many more tricks in the bag. He joined a bus queue for a vehicle going in the wrong direction and in the general scramble between those ascending and others alighting, slid round the bonnet and across the road again. He had gone some considerable way, when he heard the now familiar footsteps, and felt again that indefinable sensation which told him he was not alone. He revised his views of Mr. Pirri, and made for the first Underground station. Here he was lucky.

  The central hall was crowded. He bought a ticket for a train going west, took his place on the escalator, and looked about him as he was carried slowly down. There was no sign of his man and he was slightly puzzled. He saw no face he knew, and took a chance on joining the outgoing stream on the staircase going up. He left the station by the second entrance, and once more headed straight for his objective. He was in the West End now, and among the crowds he felt surer of escape.

  Just as he turned into Beak Street, however, his heart sank again. The footsteps had returned. They were slow and heavy, and there was always a little metallic ring as one foot struck the pavement. As he walked on it occurred to him that he’d been making a fool of himself; these were not the same feet which had trailed him to Bush’s house. His mind had been playing tricks on him. Because Pirri had been following him on the first occasion, he had stupidly assumed that he would do it again. No, this was someone very different.

  Orthodox methods having failed, he turned sharply and advanced towards the oncoming man. The steps retreated, and for a time Campion followed them. A crowd of soldiers surging out of a Service Club aided him; they bore down upon him in a stampede of army boots. He slackened his speed so that they came round and past him, and under cover of their noise, he turned swiftly, and ran. Another five minutes of doubling in and out of the narrow courts and passages found him free again.

  He paused to listen. In the ghostly darkness London moved all round him; he could hear a thousand pairs of feet. The distant purr of petrol engines, voices, laughter, and, far away, the most characteristic of all sounds, the braying of tugs on the river. But of the one particular noise for which he waited, the slow, firm tread punctuated by the scrape of metal on stone, there was no trace at all. He sighed, he was very relieved. He wanted no companion upon the call he was about to make.

  He waited listening for nearly five minutes and then set out for Carados Square.

  It might be thought impossible for a stranger to locate in the dark a single pig-pen in the midst of a square covering five acres. But on this muggy London night there were means of detecting it.

  All the railings
were down, their slender grace long since sacrificed to salvage, and two strands of wire alone protected the oasis of dusty bushes and utilitarian tin huts. Mr. Campion circled the enclosure until his nose told him the time had come, then he slid through the wire and made his way to a little wooden court, lovingly contrived of the pillars from the staircase of a famous club, and the relics of the counter of a somewhat obscure bank.

  As he approached, his spirits rose. He heard the sound of voices. To be exact, only one of these was making any intelligible communication, the other punctuated the remarks of the first with a series of acquiescing snorts.

  “You’re goin’ on nicely, old dear. You’re a picture now; real class about you. Did they give you a bit o’ grub teatime.” The murmur, tender and solicitous as a lover’s, reached Mr. Campion happily through the gloom. “’Oo give it to yer?” it continued. “Old Warty Warden? You like ’im, don’t yer, Old Lady? ’E’s all right in ’is way. I like ’im too, but ’e’ll never be the pal I’ve bin to yer. Never go runnin’ away wiv that idea. Don’t you go trying anything funny. I’ll come and see yer nights. I’m wiv yer, though you can’t see me, see? You are a fat old devil. Wot yer got round yer chops? Wrinkles? Fat, that is; fat and crackling. You’ve got ‘air on yer ears, d’you know that?”

  In the darkness Campion edged nearer to the barrier. He, could see nothing whatever in the evil-smelling pit below him, but the black hillock which he had hitherto mistaken for a shed roof, now heaved itself and disappeared further into the shade.

  “Call that a neck?” said the voice, now considerably nearer ground level.

  Mr. Campion could bear it no longer. “Has she got your eyes?” he enquired.

  The hillock changed shape abruptly, and Mr. Lugg swore in the dark.

  “You might ’ave startled ’er,” he said reproachfully, adding in a tone of studious casualness, “so you’re back in Town, are yer? Couldn’t leave trouble alone, I suppose?”

  “Not quite the way I should have put it myself,” said Campion. “What do you think you’ve been doing?”

  A gleam from a truculent eye reached him through the dusk. “Ever ’eard of tactics?” enquired the pig-keeper. “I’ve been ’aving a slice of them. This is a strategic withdrawal, a gettin’ out quick, and if I were you, I’d do the same.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, but you seem to be better at it than I am. You rang up the police and reported the corpse giving my name, did you?”

  “You couldn’t leave it there, cock.” Lugg was on the defensive. “It’d ’ave to be moved sooner or later, and as I was supposed to be care-taking, I thought the rozzers ’ad better get on with it. I did give them your name; if it’s been awkward, I’m sorry. No one could say more.”

  “Couldn’t they? I could astound you. I suppose you realize that you’re an accessory after the fact.”

  There was a long silence. Lugg was so quiet he might have died. When at last he spoke his voice was thin.

  “So the old girl did ’er in, did she? I did wonder, and kicked meself for letting it come in me ’ead. Cawd! That shows yer, doesn’t it? This is a treat, this is. What do I do now?”

  He sat down as he spoke on something that sounded like a pail. “Lumme!” he said.

  Campion was sorry for him but not heart-broken.

  “Who suggested you should fade away?” he demanded.

  “Wot? Yesterday?”

  “Naturally. Don’t fool about. Who put you up to it?”

  “She did. ’Er Dowager Whatnot did, of course, but I’d thought of it meself by that time. ‘There’s no use of you ’anging around ’ere any more, Mr. Lugg,’ she said, ’is there? You git away and forgit it,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid we’ve stirred up a bit of trouble for ourselves, and we must face it. There’s no need to involve you,’ she says.” He sniffed. “I fell for it, there’s no ’iding that. I took it in like a goldfish. I might ’ave known, I know that, so don’t you go sayin’ it, but it cast a spell over me; it always does, these days. I can’t ’elp it.”

  “What does?” enquired Mr. Campion taken aback.

  “Ler Hote Mond,” said the deep voice from the darkness. “That’s Pole for the article, if you don’t know. A nice little bloke in a pub told me that. I’ve been learnin’ a few things while you’ve been away.”

  “So it would appear, but not enough,” agreed Mr. Campion brutally. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Ah.” The voice was considering. “Now you’re askin’, cock. Wot ’ave they got on me so far, d’you know?”

  Mr. Campion told him, and again there was silence.

  “Changed ’er tale,” said Lugg at last. “Changed ’er curly, and the first wasn’t so ’ot neither, was it? And it was true.”

  “Well, was it? Suppose you clear your mind. Where did you get the body?”

  “Where from?”

  “Yes, that’s the point at issue.”

  “Out of ’is RAF’s ’ouse. That big ’un over there wiv the top orf.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Mr. Lugg arose from his pail. “I’m not in the dock vet,” he said, “nor I ain’t in the bin, and you’re a pal, or used to be. I know I’ve bin a mug, but I ’ad a respeck for ’er Ladyship’s manner, which was matey, and ’er title, which was not. Now I’ve bin let down. You’ve got slightly common out at the war, ’aven’t yer? Where’s yer feeling?”

  “Feeling?”

  “Yus. For my feelings. I wish I’d never set eyes on that bit of uplift. She’s a wonderful woman. I didn’t think she ’ad it in ’er to do anybody in. Not right in. It’s upset me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Campion, inadequately, he felt.

  “That’s all right.” Lugg was magnanimous. “We’ll forgit it. Wot about you? Are you on the run too?”

  “Well, I’m trying to get down to Nidd.”

  “Are yer? I’ll come wiv yer. I wish I could take my old gel in the pen ’ere. She’s a beauty when you see ’er. Skin like alpaca.”

  “That’s out of the question.”

  “I know it is. Don’t rub it in. They’ll feed ’er ’ere, but she won’t get on without me.” He turned back to the sty. “Pore old lady,” he said, “I’m goin’ to leave yer, ducks.”

  “Perhaps you’d like me to wait in the square,” suggested Campion.

  “I ’ate yer in this mood.” Lugg was embarrassed. “I’ve got fond of ’er, that’s all. I’m coming. We’ll ’ave to nip back to my place first—now wot’s up?”

  Mr. Campion had gripped his arm. Footsteps were advancing down the quiet road to meet them. They were distinctive footsteps, heavy and assured, and at every other stroke there came the little clink of metal against stone.

  They came closer and closer, and before the pig court’s distinctive presence they paused and advanced towards the wire.

  It was not until that moment that Campion recognized their owner, and understood why he had met his match. He laughed softly in the darkness.

  “Oates, you old sinner,” he said aloud, “what are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE CHIEF OF the Criminal Investigation Department crawled through the wire, grumbling a little.

  “Hello,” he said, “that’s Lugg you’ve got with you, isn’t it? I say, what an infernal stink! Don’t you C.D. fellows ever get complaints about this?”

  At Mr. Campion’s side his friend and his friend’s friend both breathed deeply.

  “I can’t smell nothin’,” said Lugg evilly.

  “Good Lord, can’t you? It’s frightful. I’ve been looking for you, Campion, you thought you’d shaken me off, didn’t you?” His drooping figure surged towards them in the gloom; he sounded privately pleased with himself.

  “A fair cop,” agreed Mr. Campion. “I didn’t realize it was a battle of giants. What have you done? Demoted yourself? I thought you got other ranks to do this sort of thing. Just the labour shortage, I suppose.”

  Oates linked an arm through h
is. “That will be quite enough from you,” he said. “This is a private call on an old friend. You and I must have a chat. I’m very pleased to see I can still do my stuff, though. Strewth, Lugg, isn’t there somewhere round here where we can talk that’s a bit more salubrious?”

  “Do we understand Lugg is under arrest?” murmured Campion.

  “No.” The pressure on his arm increased. “Come off it, Campion. I need you and it’s important. Faugh! Have you been standing here long?”

  Lugg could bear the insult no longer. “Since a little ’ooman nature upsets yer,” he began, ominously, but thought better of it and changed his tune. “Perhaps you’d like to come along to my place. You’d be comfortable there.”

  “Is it far?”

  “No. Just over ’ere.”

  “Right. We’ll follow you. You may thrive in this, but I think it’s unhealthy.” The Chief was quite unconscious of giving offence and he urged Campion towards the wire. “You’d thought you’d shed me in that Tube Station, didn’t you?” he said.

  Campion grinned in the darkness. “I did. You stayed in the booking hall, I suppose, banking on me not taking a train. I got away from you in Beak Street, though.”

  “Ah,” said Oates, “but by that time I knew where you were going. It’s more than I do now, though. Where are you taking us, Lugg?”

  “Mind yer step,” said their prospective host. “It’s acrost this bit of no-man’s land.”

  They had reached the other side of the square by this time and the dark figure ahead of them plunged down an alley between two ruined buildings. They came out into an area the size of a football pitch, which had been razed to the ground and already demolition squads had tidied the road into little mounds of assorted rubble. Lugg pushed on, and paused at last before what appeared at first to be a heap of débris, but which proved to be a scullery with a single chimney, the only relic of a small mews cottage which had once stood there.