Coroner's Pidgin (19 page)

“Good night, all,” he said.

“Good night,” said Yeo, without turning to him and sighed with relief when the area door closed behind him. “Thank the Lord for that,” he said. “London is full of those chaps wandering into houses like regular constables getting cups of tea. People like 'em, but they cramp a professional's style.” He was speaking absently, and Campion, who had by now established communication with the housekeeper, stepped back as she bustled from cupboard to stove.

“But not quite the style one would expect from a full-blown Superintendent,” he said. It was an intentional blow below the belt, and Yeo flushed darkly.

“Special circumstances demand special tactics,” he said defensively. “In the normal way when I put a person under house arrest and she breaks it, I pull her in. When I can't do that, I do the best I can.” He hesitated, and smiled. “When I saw Her Ladyship enter the front door, I knocked at this one. This old dear opened it, and simply motioned me forward. I didn't realize she was deaf until I got inside and then I found that warden chap sitting here, and couldn't get any further. The next thing I know, you walk in. What's happening upstairs?”

Mr. Campion leaned across the table.

“Yeo,” he said, “we must have known each other quite a time. During our association have you or have you not found me helpful, honest, tidy, clean, and modest in company?”

The Superintendent looked uncomfortable. “I don't know what you're playing at,” he said stiffly.

“Exactly,” said Campion. “And why? Because I'm not playing. While you people don't trust me I prefer not to know you. You've stopped my first home leave since the war broke out and what do you do with me? Nothing. You waste my time playing silly beggars in the dark. I have not the slightest glimmer of a night thought what you may think you're up to, and I take this opportunity of telling you I don't like the look of it, whatever it is. Good heavens, a Superintendent of the Special Branch breaking and entering; whatever next?”

It was very unfair. Yeo, who was a stickler for police etiquette, was stung to bitterness.

“Look here, my lad,” he said. “I can't tell you anything. I'm working directly under the Chief and these are his orders. I know it's highly irregular, but then it's a—a highly irregular crime.”

Mr. Campion took off his spectacles and looked at him coldly without speaking. Yeo turned away. Presently Campion took pity on him.

“You look like the original policeman's lot,” he suggested.

The Superintendent swore softly. “It's a hell of a case,” he began, adding more brightly, “I suppose I couldn't help you with that tray?”

“Thank you, no.” Campion was polite but firm. “Since you have no reason to suspect that a felony is taking place upstairs, I really don't see how you can hope to get any further into the house.”

“That's where you unofficial dicks have the advantage over us,” said Yeo unpardonably, and Mr. Campion had no further compunction.

“I take it you're quite certain our hostess
is
deaf?” he enquired innocently.

Yeo laughed at him. “I like to see you being clever,” he observed. “I'm not quite so senile as that. I tested her, she's deaf all right. Doesn't lip-read much, either.”

“Smart work. And what about the warden?”

“The warden? That A.R.P. chap? No one suggested he was deaf. What are you getting at now? I saw nothing unusual about the warden.”

“No, I gathered you didn't, but I did.” Mr. Campion was already in the doorway. “His name is Pirri, and he's part owner of the Minoan; you must have missed him by about ten minutes or so this morning. Holly knows him. Last time I saw them together, Pirri was on the verge of being knifed by Stavros. Perhaps you heard about it.”

As a revenge it was complete. The Superintendent sat gaping. “What the hell was he doing here?” he demanded.

“Imitating the new police methods, I shouldn't wonder,” said Mr. Campion unpleasantly. “He followed me, though, not Lady Carados. Also, if it's of any interest to you, I'm fairly certain he was the man who drove my taxi last night. If you should see him, you might get it into his head that he's wasting his time on me. I've got nothing, tell him, not even the confidence of the police.”

“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.