Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories

by Margery Allingham

  He passed on and forgot all about the clock as soon as he entered the dining-room. Mae Turrett sprang at him with little affected cries which he took to indicate a hostess’s delight.

  “Albert dear?’ she said breathlessly. “How marvellous to see you! Aren’t we wonderfully festive? The gardener assures me it’s going to snow tonight, in fact he’s virtually promised it. I do love a real old family party at Christmas, don’t you? Just our very own selves… too lovely! Let me introduce you to a very dear friend of mine: Mrs. Welkin—Mr. Campion.”

  Campion was aware of a large middle-aged woman with drooping cheeks and stupid eyes who sniggered at him and looked away again.

  Lunch was not a jolly meal by any means. Even Lady Turrett’s cultivated chatter died down every now and again. However, Mr. Campion had ample opportunity to observe the strangers of whom he had heard so much.

  Mike Peters was a sturdy silent youngster with a brief smile and a determined chin. It was obvious that he knew what he wanted and was going for it steadily. Mr. Campion found himself wishing him luck.

  Since much criticism before a meeting may easily defeat its own ends, Mr. Campion had been prepared to find the Welkin family pleasant but misunderstood people, round pegs in a very square hole. He was mistaken. Kenneth Welkin, a fresh faced, angry eyed young man, sat next to Sheila and sulked throughout the meal. The only remark he addressed to Mr. Campion was to ask what make of car he drove and to disapprove loudly of the answer to his question.

  A closer inspection of Mrs. Welkin did not dispel Mr. Campion’s first impression, but her husband interested him. Edward Welkin was a large man with a face that would have been distinguished had it not been for the eyes, which were too shrewd, and the mouth, which was too coarse. His attitude towards his hostess was conspicuously different from his wife’s, which was ingratiating, and his son’s, which was uneasy and defensive. The most obvious thing about him was that he completely alien. George he regarded quite clearly as a nincompoop and Lady Turrett as a woman who so far had given his wife value for money. To everyone else he was sublimely indifferent.

  His tweeds, of the best old-gentleman variety, had their effect ruined by the astonishing quantity of jewellery he chose to display at the same time. He wore two signet rings, one with an agate and one with a sapphire, and an immense jewelled tiepin, while out of his waistcoat pocket peeped a gold and onyx pen with a pencil to match, strapped together in a bright green leather case. They were both of them as thick round as his forefinger and looked at first glance like the insignia of some obscure order.

  Just before they rose from the table Mrs. Welkin cleared her throat.

  “As you are going to have a crowd of tenants this evening, Mae, I don’t think I’ll wear it, do you?” she said with a giggle and a glance at Mr. Campion.

  “Wear what, dear?” Lady Turrett spoke absently and Mrs. Welkin looked hurt.

  “The necklace,” she said reverently.

  “Your diamonds? Good heavens, no! Most unsuitable.” The words escaped involuntarily, but in a moment her ladyship was mistress of herself and the situation. “Wear something very simple,” she said with a mechanical smile. “I’m afraid it’s going to be very hard work for us all. Mike, you do know exactly what to do, don’t you? At the end of the evening, just before they go home, you put on the costume and come into the little ante-room which leads off the platform. You go straight up to the tree and cut the presents off, while all the rest of us stand round to receive them and pass them on to the children.”

  Mrs. Welkin bridled. “I should have liked to have worn them,” she said petulantly. “Still, if you say it’s not safe…”

  “Mother didn’t say it wasn’t safe, Mrs. Welkin,” said Sheila sharply. “She said it wasn’t suitable.”

  Mrs. Welkin blushed angrily.

  “You’re not very polite, young lady,” she said, “and if it’s a question of suitability, where’s the suitability in Mr. Peters playing Santa Claus when it was promised to Kenny?”

  The mixture of muddled logic and resentment startled everyone. Sir George looked helplessly at his wife, Kenneth Welkin turned savagely on his mother, and Edward Welkin settled rather than saved the situation.

  “That’ll do,” he said in a voice of thunder. “That’s all been fixed, Ada. I don’t want to hear any more from either of you on the subject.”

  The table broke up with relief. Sir George tugged Campion’s arm.

  “Cigar—library,” he murmured and faded quietly away.

  Campion followed him.

  There were Christmas decorations in the book-filled study and, as he settled himself in a wing chair before a fire of logs and attended to the tip of a Romeo y Julieta, Mr. Campion felt once more the return of the Christmas spirit.

  Sir George was anxious about his daughter’s happiness.

  “I like young Peters,” he said earnestly. “Fellow can’t help his father’s troubles.”

  Mr. Campion agreed with him and the older man went on.

  ‘The boy Mike’s an engineer,” he said, “and makin’ good at his job slowly, and Sheila seems fond of him, but Mae talks about hereditary dishonesty. Taint may be there. What do you think?”

  Mr. Campion had no time to reply to this somewhat unlikely theory. There was a flutter and a rustic outside the door and a moment later Mr. Welkin senior came in with a flustered lady. George got up and held out his hand.

  “Ah, Miss Hare,” he said. “Glad to see you. Come on your annual visit of mercy?”

  Miss Hare, who was large and inclined to be hearty, laughed.

  “I’ve come cadging again, if that’s what you mean, Sir George,” she said cheerfully, and went on, nodding to Mr. Campion as if they had just been introduced. “Every Christmas I come round collecting for my old women. There are four of “em in the almshouse by the church. I only ask for a shilling or two to buy them some little extra for the Christmas treat. I don’t want much. Just a shilling or two.”

  She glanced at a small notebook in her hand.

  “You gave me ten shillings last year, Sir George.”

  He produced the required sum and Campion felt in his pocket.

  “Half-a-crown would be ample,” said Miss Hare encouragingly. “Oh, that’s very nice of you. I assure you it won’t be wasted.”

  She took the coin and was turning to Welkin when he stepped forward.

  “I’d like to do the thing properly,” he said. “Anybody got a pen?”

  He took out a cheque book and sat down at George’s desk uninvited.

  Miss Hare protested. “Oh no, really,” she said, “you don’t understand. This is just for an extra treat. I collect it nearly all in sixpences.”

  “Anybody got a pen?” repeated Mr. Welkin.

  Campion glanced at the elaborate display in the man’s waistcoat pocket, but before he could mention it George meekly handed over his own fountain pen.

  Mr. Welkin wrote a cheque and handed it to Miss Hare without troubling to blot it.

  “Ten pounds?” said the startled lady. “Oh, but really…!”

  “Nonsense. Run along.” Mr. Welkin clapped her familiarly on the shoulder. “It’s Christmas time,” he said, glancing at George and Campion. “I believe in doing a bit of good at Christmas time—if you can afford it.”

  Miss Hare glanced round her helplessly.

  “It’s very—very kind of you,” she said, “but half-a-crown would have been ample.”

  She fled. Welkin threw George’s pen on to the desk.

  “That’s the way I like to do it,” he said.

  George coughed and there was a faraway expression in his eyes.

  “Yes, I—er—I see you do,” he said and sat down. Welkin went out.

  Neither Mr. Campion nor his host mentioned the incident. Campion frowned. Now he had two minor problems on his conscience. One was the old matter of the piece of information concerning Charlie Spring which he had forgotten, the other was a peculiarity of Mr. Welkin’s which puzzled
him mightily.

  The Pharaoh’s Court children’s party had been in full swing for what seemed to Mr. Campion to be the best part of a fortnight. It was half-past seven in the evening and the relics of an enormous tea had been cleared away, leaving the music room full of replete but still energetic children and their mothers, dancing and playing games with enthusiasm.

  Mr. Campion, who had danced, buttled, and even performed a few conjuring tricks, bethought him of a box of his favourite cigarettes in his suitcase upstairs and, feeling only a little guilty at leaving George still working like a hero, he stole away and hurried to his room.

  The main body of the house was deserted. Even the Welkins were at work in the music room, while the staff were concentrated in the kitchen washing up.

  Mr. Campion found his cigarettes, lit one, and pottered for a moment or two, reflecting that the Christmases of his youth were much the same as those of today, but not so long from hour to hour. He felt virtuous, happy and positively oozing with goodwill. The promised snow was felling, great soft flakes plopping softly against his window.

  At last, when his conscience decreed that he could absent himself no longer, he switched off the light and stepped into the corridor, to come face to face with Father Christmas. The saint looked as weary as he himself had been and was stooping under the great sack on his shoulders. Mr. Campion admired Harridge’s costume. The boots were glossy, the tunic with its wool border satisfyingly red, while the benevolent mask with its cottonwool beard was almost lifelike.

  He stepped aside to let the venerable figure pass and, because it seemed the moment for jocularity, said lightly:

  “What have you got in the bag, Guv’nor?”

  Had he uttered a spell of high enchantment, the simple words could not have had a more astonishing effect. The figure uttered an inarticulate cry, dropped the sack, which fell with a crash at Mr. Campion’s feet, and fled like a shadow.

  For a moment Mr. Campion stood paralysed with astonishment. By the time he had pulled himself together the crimson figure had disappeared down the staircase. He bent over the sack and thrust in his hand. Something hard and heavy met his fingers and he brought it out. It was the pink marble, bronze and ormolu clock.

  He stood looking at his find and a sigh of satisfaction escaped him. One of the problems that had been worrying him all day had been solved.

  It was twenty minutes later before he reappeared in the music room. No one saw him come in, for the attention of the entire room was focused upon the platform. There, surrounded by enthusiastic assistants, was Father Christmas again, peacefully snipping presents off the tree.

  Campion took careful stock of him. The costume, he decided, was identical, the same high boots, the same tunic, the same mask. He tried to remember the fleeting figure in the corridor upstairs, but the costume was a deceptive one and he found it difficult.

  After a time he found a secluded chair and sat down to await developments. They came.

  As the last of the visitors departed and Lady Turrett threw herself into an armchair with a sigh of happy exhaustion, Pouter, the Pharaoh’s Court butler, came quietly into the room and muttered a few words into his master’s ear. From where he sat Mr. Campion heard George’s astonished “God bless my soul!” and rose immediately to join him. But although he moved swiftly Mr. Welkin was before him and, as Campion reached the group, his voice resounded round the room.

  “A burglary? While we’ve been playing the fool in here? What’s gone, man? What’s gone?”

  Pouter, who objected to the form of address, regarded his master’s guest coldly.

  “A clock from the first floor west corridor, a silver-plated salver, a copper loving cup from the hall, and a brass Buddha and a gilt pomander box from the first floor landing, as far as we can ascertain, sir,” he said.

  “Bless my soul!” said George again. “How extraordinary!”

  “Extraordinary be damned!” ejaculated Welkin. “We’ve got valuables here. Ada!”

  “The necklace!” shrieked Mrs. Welkin, consternation suddenly welling up in her eyes. “My necklace!”

  She scuttled out of the room and Sheila came forward with Santa Claus, who had taken off his mask and pushed back his hood to reveal the features of Mike Peters.

  Lady Turrett did not stir from her chair, and Kenneth Welkin, white faced and bewildered, stared down at her.

  “There’s been a burglary,” he said. “Here, in this house.”

  Mae Turrett smiled at him vaguely. “George and Pouter will see to it,” she said. “I’m tired.”

  “Tired!” shouted Edward Welkin. “If my wife’s diamonds—”

  He got no further. Ada Welkin tottered into the room, an empty steel dispatch case in her trembling hands.

  “They’ve gone,” she said, her voice rising in hysteria. “They’ve gone. My diamonds… my room’s been turned upside down. They’ve been taken. The necklace has gone.”

  It was Mike who had sufficient presence of mind to support her to a chair before she collapsed. Her husband shot a shrewd, preoccupied glance at her, shouted to his son to “Look after your mother, boy!” and took command of the situation.

  “You, Pigeon, get all the servants, everyone who’s in this house, to come here in double quick time, see? I’ve been robbed.”

  Pouter looked at his master in mute appeal and George coughed.

  “In a moment, Mr. Welkin,” he said. “In a moment. Let us find out what we can first. Pouter, go and see if any stranger is known to have been about the house or grounds this evening, will you, please?”

  The manservant went out instantly and Welkin raged.

  “You may think you know what you are doing,” he said, ‘but my way was the best. You’re giving the thief time to get away, and time’s precious, let me tell you. I’ve got to get the police up here!”

  “The police?” Sheila was aghast.

  He gaped at her. “Of course, young woman. Do you think I’m going to lose twelve thousand pounds? The stones were insured, of course, but what company would pay up if I hadn’t called in the police? I’ll go and phone up now.”

  “Wait a moment, please,” said George, his quiet voice only a little ruffled. “Here’s Pouter again. Well?”

  The butler looked profoundly uncomfortable.

  “Two maids say, sir,” he said, “they saw a man running down the drive just before the Christmas tree was begun.” He hesitated. “They—they say, sir, he was dressed as Father Christmas. They both say it, sir.”

  Everyone looked at Mike and Sheila’s cheeks flamed.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  Mr. Welkin laughed. “So that’s how it was done,” he said. “The young man was clever, but he was seen.”

  Mike moved forward. His face was pale and his eyes were dangerous. George laid a hand upon his arm.

  “Wait,” he commanded. “Mr. Welkin, you’ll have to explain, you know.”

  Mr. Welkin kept his temper. He seemed almost amused.

  “Well, it’s perfectly simple, isn’t it?” he said. “This fellow has been wandering about in this disguise all the evening. He couldn’t come in here because her ladyship wanted him to be a surprise to the children, but he had the rest of the house to himself. He went round lifting up anything he fancied, including my diamonds. Suppose he had been met? No one would think anything of it. Father Christmas always carried a sack. Then he went off down the drive where he met a confederate, handed over the stuff, and came back to the party.”

  Mike began to speak but Mr. Campion decided it was time to intervene.

  “I say, George,” he said, “if you and Mr. Welkin would come along to the library, I’ve got a suggestion I’d like to make.”

  Welkin wavered. “I’ll listen to you, Campion, but I want my diamonds back and I want the police. I’ll give you five minutes, no longer.”

  The library was in darkness when the three men entered, and Campion waited until they were all in the room before he switched on the main light.
There was a moment of bewildered silence. One corner of the room looked like a stall in a market. There the entire contents of the sack, which had come so unexpectedly into Mr. Campion’s possession, was neatly spread out. George’s cherubic face darkened.

  “What’s this?” he demanded. “A damned silly joke?”

  Mr. Campion shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve just collected this from a gentleman in fancy dress whom I met in the corridor upstairs,” he said. “What would you say, Mr. Welkin?”

  The man stared at him doggedly. “Where are my diamonds? That’s my only interest. I don’t care about this junk.”

  Campion smiled faintly. “He’s right, you know, George,” he said. “Junk’s the word. It came back to me as soon as I saw it. Poor Charlie Spring—I recognised him, Mr. Welkin—never had a successful coup in his life because he can’t help stealing gaudy junk.”

  Edward Welkin stood stiffly by the desk.

  “I don’t understand you,” he said. “My diamonds have been stolen and I want to call the police.”

  Mr. Campion took off his spectacles. “I shouldn’t if I were you,” he said. “No you don’t—!”

  On the last words Mr. Campion lept forward and there was a brief struggle. When it was over Mr. Welkin was lying on the floor beside the marble and ormolu clock and Mr. Campion was grasping the gold pen and pencil in the leather holder which until a moment before had rested in the man’s waistcoat pocket.

  Welkin scrambled to his feet. His face was purple and his eyes a little frightened. He attempted to bluster.

  “You’ll find yourself in court for assault,” he said. “Give me my property.”

  “Certainly. All of it,” agreed Mr. Campion obligingly. “Your dummy pen, your dummy pencil, and in the receptacle which they conceal, your wife’s diamonds.”

  On the last word he drew the case apart and a glittering string fell out in his hand.