Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories (17 page)

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.

There was a long, long pause.

Welkin stood sullenly in the middle of the room.

“Well?” he said at last. “What are you two going to do about it?”

Mr. Campion glanced at George, who was standing by the desk, an expression of incredulity amounting almost to stupefaction upon his mild face.

“If I might suggest,” he murmured, “I think he might take his family and spend a jolly Christmas somewhere else, don’t you? It would save a lot of trouble.”

Welkin held out his hand.

“Very well. I’ll take my diamonds.”

Mr. Campion shook his head. “As you go out of the house,” he said with a faint smile. “I shouldn’t like them to be—lost again.”

Welkin shrugged his shoulders. “You win,” he said briefly. I’ll go and tell Ada to pack.”

He went out of the room and as the door closed behind him George sat down.

“Hanged if I understand it…” he began, “his own son Kenneth was going to play Santa Claus, or at least seemed to expect to.”

Campion nodded. “I know,” he said. “If Kenneth had been playing Father Christmas and the same thing happened I think you would have found that the young man had a pretty convincing alibi established for him. You must remember the thief was not meant to be seen. He was only furnished with the costume in case he was.”

His host took the diamonds and turned them over. He was slow of comprehension.

“Why steal his own property?” he demanded.

Mr. Campion sighed. “You have such a blameless mind, George, that the wickedness of some of your fellow men must be a constant source of astonishment to you.” He paused. “Did you hear our friend Welkin say that he had insured this necklace?”

George’s eyebrows rose. “God bless my soul!” he said. “What a feller! In our house, too,” he added as an afterthought. “How did you spot it, Campion?”

Mr. Campion explained. “I knew Charlie Spring had a peculiarity but I couldn’t think what it was until I pulled that clock out of the bag. Then I remembered his penchant for the baroque and his sad habit of mistaking it for the valuable. That ruled out the diamonds. They wouldn’t be large enough for Charlie. When that came back to me, I recollected his other failing. He never works alone. When Mr. Spring appears on a job it always means he has a confederate in the house. With these two facts in my hand the rest was fairly obvious.”

“You spotted the pen was a dummy when Miss Hare came this afternoon?”

Mr. Campion grinned. “Well, it was odd the man didn’t use his own pen, wasn’t it?” he said. “When he ignored it, I guessed. That kind of cache is fairly common, especially in the States. They’re made for carrying valuables and are usually shabby plastic things which no one would steal in the ordinary way. However, there was nothing shabby about Mr. Welkin—except his behaviour.”

George poured out a couple of drinks. “Difficult feller,” he observed. “Didn’t like him from the start. No conversation. I started him on shootin’, but he wasn’t interested, mentioned huntin’ and he gaped at me, went on to fishin’ and he yawned. Couldn’t think of anything to talk to him about. Feller hadn’t any conversation at all.”

The key fidgeted in the lock, grated, and was silent. Then the door swung quietly open, admitting a wave of cold air from the staircase of the block.

The man, who was hatless and curiously short of breath, stepped inside and, thrusting out his hand, groped for the familiar switch.

The next moment he was standing in his wet raincoat, gazing about him, at first in surprise and afterwards in the cold dismay of a realised fear.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation he pulled himself together and, glancing down at the key in his hand, tiptoed across the garish carpet to a small occasional table in the corner.

Having set the key in a prominent position on the polished surface, he granted the room a second glance, turned away shuddering and made for the door again.

He was a young man, but the strain of the last few months had told upon him and the bitter experience of the past few minutes had not helped.

His brown eyes were darker than they had been and his face was drawn.

His fingers were on the light switch again when he turned and saw her. She had risen from the depths of the big chesterfield pulled across the hearth, and even in that moment of crisis he wondered that she should be there alone in the dark with no fire on a chill night, the rain teeming down in cold fury outside.

The girl was very small, almost a child, with sleek brown hair which hung loosely round her shapely head. She was fragile, and still looked as though the least breath would blow her away.

That curious, almost ethereal fragility had increased, he noticed.

She, too had not found it so easy, then.

She did not speak, but stood looking at him, her eyes bright and shy, her lips questioning.

Now that the moment had come, words deserted him. He had rehearsed this meeting so often that at the crucial moment, like a stale actor on the stage, he had forgotten his part.

“I thought you’d left here,” he said helplessly. “I was going away.”

Still she did not speak, and suddenly he lost control. His careful explanations and well-thought-out arguments were swept away by his urgent need. He stumbled towards her.

“I’ve come back,” he said. “Oh, Jenny, I’ve come back.”

She drew away from him, not resentfully but gently, almost, it seemed, reluctantly.

He saw her movement and stiffened.

“I know… I’m sorry,” he said dully, and sat down on the arm of the couch, his shoulders drooping.

Now that he was still she moved closer, perching herself on the farther arm of the couch, her feet on the seat, her arms clasping her knees.

They sat for a long time in silence and the room was very cold.

At last he looked up and met her eyes.

“I’m not a bad fellow, Jenny,” he said, “Only ordinary.”

She stirred, moved towards him and drew back again.

“You’ve only just come back to London?” she said, and her voice was quiet and thin and very gentle, as it had always been.

He nodded. “Last night. I had some sleep at a hotel, and then all day I’ve been wandering about trying to prevent myself from clearing off again. I knew I couldn’t expect you to welcome me with open arms, but I thought I might just see you and find out if there was half a chance of patching things up. Is there?”

“You want to come back?” she said, and there was something in her voice that he did not understand.

He looked at her sharply. “You’re not angry, are you?”

“Angry? Oh, no,” she said and looked down at her feet.

Once again he stretched out his hand to her, but she eluded him, shrinking away from his touch as though she were afraid of it, but he had the odd impression that it was not himself of whom she was afraid.

He thought he understood, and plunged into the story that had to be told.