Coroner's Pidgin (27 page)

“Something to do with the wine,” said Mr. Campion. “I see there's one case of
Les Enfants Doux
downstairs in the cellar. The other must have been broken into, possibly, even, the bottles were loose in their straw, anything might have happened in that hurry. She took them thinking they were valueless, and Stavros and his missus got on to her and blackmailed her, perhaps. Anyway, at some point she must have lost her head and decided to kill the woman.”

“That's it,” said Oates, his grey eyes dark as they always were when the chase ran close, “that's it. And because she realized that if ever it did come to a show-down all the proof lay against her and not her principal, she did her best to put the blame on him. How's that?”

Mr. Campion thrust his hands deep in his pockets and
his chin sank into his collar. “There's no proof whatever against him,” he said.

“There never is against a big man in this sort of business.” Oates spoke bitterly. “But I'll get him,” he added grimly. “In the end.”

Campion glanced towards the drive. There was still no sign of police cars. The gardener on duty by the area had his back towards the dreadful sight within it, and was rubbing his neck with a coloured handkerchief. Neither Holly nor his quarry had yet appeared. It was all very sunny and ugly and comfortable.

“You can't hold him,” said Campion at last. “Not on present evidence?”

“No, of course I can't.” For Oates the voice was harsh. “But on the other hand I can't lose him.”

“How do you mean?”

Oates laughed savagely. “A man in his position with a name like his and a job like his can't hide himself in a country this size in its present restricted state,” he said. “That's the one break I've got. All England is a cage for him until I get the proof I want. There's no way out for him, none at all.”

Campion could think of one, but he did not mention it. The emotional effect upon him of the new developments went deeper than he cared to admit. It was not so much that Johnny Carados was an old acquaintance as that he was a figure long admired. Treachery from him was more than treachery; there was insult in it and betrayal. As the reflection spread through his mind, others followed it, and he remembered those other well-loved figures whom the war had revealed unworthy of the general pride. Was Johnny Carados to join that dismal parade? The question so shook him that it was with relief that he saw Holly striding across the grass toward them. The Inspector was excited, and the essential policeman in him was very evident.

“Two things, Mr. Oates,” he said. “First I've been on to the Yard and spoken to Superintendent Yeo. Then I've had it out with Carados. He sticks to his story, by the way; it's straightforward and I can't shake him. He seems genuinely
upset about the girl—sort of stunned. Also he says he's got to get back to his duty.”

“Well, he can't at the moment, that's certain.”

“I've told him so, but he says he must be back on his station by tonight. He says it's vital.”

The Chief allowed his lips to form several words before he chose the one he wanted. “Do you see any way we can hold him, Holly?”

“No, sir. Seeing who he is we can't step over the line anywhere. He swears he'll be back for the inquest if it's any time after noon tomorrow.”

Oates shrugged his shoulders. “There's nothing for it, is there?”

“I don't think so, sir.” Holly was as gloomy as his superior officer. “I don't think he can get away though. He thinks he's safe and he can't make a run for it. Anyway, we've got nothing on him as far as the killing is concerned. We saw it happen. If we hadn't been there . . .”

“Ah, but we were,” said Oates. “We were, and we weren't quick enough or that poor girl could have told us something.”

“Poor girl, sir?” Holly was startled at this commiseration for the first cold-blooded murderer he had ever been privileged to witness in action.

Oates noticed it and was unimpressed. “I'm always a little sorry for anyone who completely loses his nerve,” he said, adding irrelevantly, “especially if they're as valuable as that poor woman could have been to us. No, we'll have to let him go again, but it's the last time, Holly, the very last time. What about Yeo? He's not too pleased with us, I expect.”

“I think he felt we might have waited for him, sir.”

“So we ought to have done. I could give myself the sack for that,” the Chief spoke complacently. “But we've justified ourselves. We got here just at the right time, You told him?”

“Yes, Mr. Oates, I did. And he's got something. They've been busy, and they've found the storage firm.”

“Really?” Oates was astounded. “I'd have bet on it that they were entirely fictitious.”

“No, they're not. They exist all right. It's very small, only one little office, but it's been established some time. There's one elderly woman clerk who does what work there is, and according to her story the business changed hands just before the war when it was in very low water. It was taken over by a Mr. Jesso who brought in a lot of accounts of a special kind—evacuation of furniture to the country.”

“Good God!” said Oates piously, “it's coming unstuck at last. Have they got Jesso?”

“No, not yet, sir. Apparently things are very quiet now, and have been for some time. He comes in very seldom and the woman doesn't know where he lives. She's quite honest, apparently. But they have got the books with all the addresses of the various warehouses, barns and halls and other country storage places. They're getting on to that now. And if we're right—”

“If we're right, we'll recover the blessed lot. This is terrific, Holly. Any more?”

The Chief Inspector did not speak immediately. A faint smile played round his small mouth. “There's no proof of this yet,” he said at last, “but they've got a description of Jesso from the woman and it is rather significant. Superintendent Yeo told me to repeat it to you in her words. She says he's a particularly small man with a very deep voice and that he wears a small, pointed beard.”

“Gold,” said Campion abruptly.

Holly nodded to him approvingly. “That's what the Superintendent thought. He's arranging for a chance meeting between the two.”

The Chief whistled. “We're getting very close to Carados,” he said.

Mr. Campion stood thinking. He was remembering the details of the last interview he had had with Gee-gee Gold less than twelve hours before on the landing just outside Theodore Bush's bedroom. ‘Johnny is
sans reproche
', he had said, and had meant it. What exactly did that signify? Had Gold seen Johnny as a leader to be followed blindly, or was it possible that he might have seen him as a cloak? The Chief's brisk voice cut into his meditations.

“Ah, here are the cars at last,” he was saying. “That civilian is the doctor, I suppose. Now we can get on.”

He and Holly strode forward to meet the newcomers, but Mr. Campion did not accompany them. He found a small uncomfortable concrete seat between two atrocious Germanic gnomes, and sat down. He had had his fill of casualties and was not interested in the police doctor's test for death. Death was there all right. Nor did he wish to hear again the endless formalities, the apologies, and the explanations, the interviews and the sworn statements. He sat thinking that it was nearly forty-eight hours now since he had first missed his train and that there was still more trouble to come to delay him. The conviction was growing upon him that he had a duty to perform, one which demanded all his resource and experience There was the tremendous likelihood of failure to consider, and the strong possibility of another eventuality, even more unpleasant.

He was still sitting there, hunched up in the bright sun-light, when Johnny came out of the mock-Gothic porch. He stood for a moment looking round for his car and Campion rose and went to meet him. Carados was already at the driving-wheel when the other man came up. There was a change in him, but it was not the one Campion had expected. He was no longer dazed but was still expressionless, and behind it all there was an air of determination, a grimness, almost a courage. His clear-cut, terrifyingly intelligent face was pale but he was quite steady and his voice was casual.

“Hello, Campion,” he said. “Sorry to leave all this to you, but it can't very well be helped.” He paused, aware that the words were too light altogether. “It's shaken me, you know,” he said. “I'd known her for eight years.”

“Do you know,” said Mr. Campion slowly, “I rather doubt that.”

Carados peered at him through the open driving window. “Yes,” he admitted. “There's a lot in that. It's terrifying to think that you can see people every day and never know them. She was mad at the end, I think: utterly insane. Did you see her? Yet I came down with her this morning and
never noticed anything. I didn't even think about her. She seemed just the same, efficient, you know, jolly, and unget-at-able.” His voice was betraying him a little, now, the edges wearing thin.

“She was insane with fear,” said Campion.

The man in the car shivered. “God, how horrible!” he said.

Campion took a deep breath. “I don't want to butt in,” he began wretchedly, “but is it absolutely necessary that you should get back just at this particular moment?”

“Afraid so.” Again the curious, reserved expression showed for an instant in the blue eyes. “I must. I knew I had to get back, that's why I came down in the night. I shan't touch London; I shall go straight from here. I've known about the date some time, it's vital, I'm afraid.”

“But I thought that if all had gone well you were getting married this morning?”

It might have been supposed that the words had escaped Campion by accident. He coloured slightly, and apologized. “I'm sorry,” he said, “it's nothing to do with me.”

Carados ignored the entire incident. His reserved expression deepened and he changed the subject.

“I'd better get on,” he said. “Work to do. It's a hell of a life.”

“Yes,” said Campion, and added with an innocence not altogether natural in him, “Doing any flying yourself?”

The other man pressed the starter. “Now and again, you know,” he said above the purr of the engine. “They say one gets too old for it, but I can't bring myself to believe it.”

Campion held the car door as if he would restrain the machine by force. “I'll see you at the inquest,” he said.

“Eh?” said Johnny Carados. “Oh, yes. Right ho.”

“I'll see you at the inquest,” Campion repeated. “I'm relying on you, and I think you'll come.”

“Do you?” said Carados. “What a queer chap you are, Campion. I wonder why you do? Good-bye. If I can, you know, if I can.”

He let in the clutch very gently, and the car rolled slowly
away shaking off Mr. Campion's restraining hand without roughness.

The other man stood looking after it as it disappeared among the trees. From the house behind him came the sound of voices and Oates and the poker-backed Chief Constable appeared in the porch. Very slowly, Mr. Campion turned to join them.

IT WAS ALMOST
closing time at the Minoan, which, in wartime, expected its clients to eat early and be thankful. The little room on the first floor which had seen so much of the story already was well shuttered, and the light hanging from the ceiling made a bright pool on the red table-cloth. Half in and half out of that pool sat Mr. Pirri, while Stavros lurked in the dusk behind him. Both partners were unusually quiet.

Mr. Campion, whose cheek-bones were beginning to show prominently beneath dark circles behind his spectacles, sat before them.

“It's a fair offer,” he said.

Pirri spread out his wide hands. “We've told you all we know,” he said, his shrill, angry voice rising.

“All right.” Mr. Campion rose. “Party's over. We'll go the long way round. I can identify the taxi and I can swear you drove it and attacked me. My word may not convict you but it'll give you a hell of a run for your money.”

The full brown eyes nearest him flickered. “That will be inconvenient,” suggested Mr. Pirri.

“Very,” Campion agreed. “Police everywhere worrying everybody. There must be somebody who saw the cab go out? And someone knows where the juice came from. That should be traceable these days.”

Pirri reflected, and presently his teeth appeared in a brief smile. “You are not a vindictive man?”

“I'm prepared to forget and forgive a little matter between friends.”

“Very good.”

“I agree. Magnificent, as far as it goes. Pirri, when you kidnapped me, what were you looking for?”

He did not reply, but Stavros touched him.

“What does it matter?” he murmured. “Both poor girls are dead . . .”

“Women!” said Pirri, with sudden fury. “Always you think of nothing but women. I alone do the work. It is I who concentrate on the business. But for me we should be in the street. And what happens when I exert meself—when I go perhaps a little too far? You try to knife me because you think I have attacked your woman. I who did nothing but strive to help our business.”

He turned to Campion almost in tears. “These restrictions, this scarcity,” he said. “How can one progress? How can one supply one's patrons? At last people are willing to spend and I—I have nothing to sell.”

In any other situation his rage must have had an element of the comic. His entire energy went into the exposure of his intolerable grievances. They poured from him in an avalanche of emotion.

“Since I was a child, a boy, a little helpless boy, I work to sell, and no one has a sixpence,” he repeated. “And now they wave five-pound notes at me and what have I to give them? Nothing at all. It has made me a little bit mad, you know, and naturally.”