Coroner's Pidgin (20 page)

“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?”

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 his. “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.

“'Ere we are.” Their guide produced a key and solemnly unlocked his domain. “It's bijou,” he said with sly pride, “but it does for me. I've been using it for a smoke ever since they uncovered it. But I've only slep' 'ere since the bit of trouble last night.”

He disappeared and they heard him find a box of matches. The light from a single candle revealed a minute room containing two chairs, a table, a sink, and three bottles of beer. Lugg indicated the stove, bright but unlit.

“I don't use it because of the smoke,” he said frankly. “I don't want to 'ave to pay rent.”

There were still traces of former habitation in the room; an ancient rag mat lay on the floor and there was a bowl and scrubbing brush under the sink. Over the mantel-shelf hung a mirror, and tucked into it a photograph cut from
The Farmers' Weekly
showing a mighty middle-white with a prize litter. Mr. Campion took the candle to look at this more clearly.

“Charming pin-up,” he remarked. “Is this she?”

“No, that's 'er granny, but she takes after 'er. How's that for a treat?”

The Chief looked over their shoulders without enthusiasm. Presently he sat down. “This'll do,” he said.

“I'll wait outside,” said their host obligingly. “Or I might nip back and give 'er 'er afters. I'll be about when you want me. Our trip is still on, is it?”

Oates glanced at Campion. “You were going to Nidd?”

“We thought of it.”

“I see.”

He took out his pipe and began to fill it. Lugg went out quietly, and Campion stood with his back to the cold stove and surveyed his friend, who at that moment looked so surprisingly little different from the Chief Inspector Stanislaus Oates of the old days.

“I don't understand it,” he said.

“I don't blame you.” The Chief made the observation mildly, as he pressed the tobacco carefully into the bowl. “I don't blame you at all, but it's a nasty business. Thirty-two killings, or presumed killings, so far, and God knows how much irreplaceable stuff in the wrong hands. But that's not the real trouble.”

“It sounds a good beginning.”

“Oh, it's plenty. I've known the time when we'd have considered it a plateful. No, looked at in one way—the
right
way, mind you, Campion—that's quite enough. I don't suppose you remember the old McSweeney gang? They were about in nineteen-ten and the whole police force of the country was buzzing like a first-night vestibule. And what did it amount to? Half a dozen old ladies bumped off and fifty thousand quids' worth of coloured stones shipped off to Amsterdam. We thought it plenty in those days, but times have changed. Today the world crooks have got to work on a grand scale. Today they murder them in thousands and pinch valuables in train-loads. I don't say I've got blasé, but when I hear of a sailor getting tight and putting his girl out for seven-and-six, I don't feel the same about him as I did once. I know he's the villain he always was and I proceed according to the rules, but I don't
feel
the same way towards him.”

Mr. Campion sat down on the edge of the sink, and his face wore its old expression of vacant bewilderment. “You're shocking me rather,” he said.

“I dare say I am.” Oates got his pipe alight at last. “But I'm talking to you like this because I want you to be useful if you can. Now as I see it, just at this moment in the history of the present civilization, the crime of murder for gain is not quite what it was; it's not at the top of the list any more. There's a worse one than that because it's more dangerous to the community.”

Mr. Campion did not speak.

“Double-crossing,” said Oates.

“Double-crossing?”

He looked up gravely. “That's what I call it. As I get older I hear people talking about this ism and that ism and
war and the causes of war, and it makes me tired. God bless my soul, this present affair isn't a war!”

“Eh?” said Mr. Campion.

“No.” The Chief was as nearly vehement as he ever was. “There are rules in war but in crime there are none. This is crime on a colossal scale and the view I take of it is professional, naturally. In my opinion the most dangerous aspect of the whole thing, when seen broadly, is this element of double-crossing—running with the hare and hunting with the hounds, if you prefer it. That's something which has got to be hunted down and torn right out if we're not going to have the whole thing over again. And as I see it, it's a police job.”

“Catching spies?” enquired Mr. Campion stupidly.

“No, no. Spies are all right. They're regulation.” Oates was impatient. “We catch theirs, and they catch ours. Spies are almost clean. No, the men I'm after are the Judases. The men who kiss and serve and sell; the lads who sit snug in one way of life and still serve the other. The men who don't know what's important. We've still got them here, and when we've won we'll still have them waiting to do it again. They're the chaps I'm after. My hands are on a whole bunch of them and I'll get the lot if it's the last thing I do. This is personal, Campion; I hate those blokes.”

He was speaking with more passion than his friend had ever suspected he possessed. Campion was enlightened; the picture in his mind was taking a larger, darker shape, and the spectacle of high-ranking police officials scuttling about like constables no longer astonished him, but there was still much he found bewildering.

“Are you suggesting this treasure lorry's disappearance was an enemy-inspired job?” he enquired blankly.