Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories (22 page)

The dark coat which covered his trim form rendered him inconspicuous. He stood for a moment looking about him. Then, convinced that he was unobserved, he sent the lift back into position. Pulling his hat down over his eyes he stepped across the concrete and entered what appeared to be an area leading to a coal cellar.

The place was empty. It had been built in the days when the block of flats was a private house. The man seemed to know his way, for he used no torch and there were no street lights. He crept softly round the wall, and finally, discovering the door he sought, passed through it into yet another cellar.

He came out of this into an area precisely similar to the one by which he had entered. He stepped up into the street in a narrow turning on the opposite side of the road from the block of flats.

He stood listening but there were no unusual sounds above the hum of the traffic. Presently he set off down the pavement and turned into Winton Mews.

The narrow, unsavoury court was quiet, and no gleam of light showed from the windows above the garage doors. Box stepped forward and, moving up to the third door on the left, knocked twice, once loudly and once softly. Instantly it swung open, and he stepped into the darkness within.

“I wish you’d talk. You get on my nerves sitting there, Fishy Eyes!”

Mr. Knapp stood at the end of the wooden table in the damp, ill-lighted cellar and looked at the man who sat opposite, his head resting upon his clasped hands, a dull expression upon his white face.

Joseph Thurtle had looked weary when he had stepped off the boat train at Victoria a little over twenty-four hours before, but in the interval he had become more haggard and drawn than would have seemed possible. He took no notice of the garage proprietor’s opening gambit, but continued to stare straight in front of him.

“Leave “im alone, Thos, can’t you?” The speaker was a heavily built, red-faced individual, who lay sprawled upon a pile of newspapers spread out on a packing case in the corner of the cellar. “Leave “im to the boss!”

The other two occupants were cutting for coins on yet another box and they nodded their approval. One was a slender, dark young man and the other a splendidly proportioned, hard-bitten-looking giant of a man with three days’ growth of honey-coloured hair on his chin.

Mr. Knapp sniffed and wandered over to join the card players.

“I can’t understand you, Jack,” he said, eyeing the dark young man. ‘You sit here and play with Bill all day long. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“Run away, Thos. You’re interrupting!” Jack Simmons’ voice was unexpectedly well modulated. “Bill and I have done enough work for today. We don’t get our fun as you do, tormenting the prisoner.”

“That’s right.” The man addressed as Bill revealed a guttural Scandinavian accent. “You go and worry Tim.” He indicated the big man in the corner.

“If he comes over here,” said that worthy with sudden violence, “I’ll break his skinny little neck.”

“All right. No offence, I “ope!” Mr. Knapp perched himself on the edge of the table and considered Joseph Thurtle once again.

Suddenly a rumbling roar shook the room in which they sat, but none of the men so much as batted an eyelid. They were used to the tube trains which hurtled past within a few feet of them. Joseph Thurtle stirred wearily where he sat, but the blank helpless look did not vanish from his eyes.

Then there was the sound of an electric bell and the company in the room glanced up. Mr. Knapp slipped off the table and stood. A rough wooden door at the far end of the room swung open and a young man appeared. The collar of his dark coat was turned up and his hat was pulled well down over his eyes. He stood for a moment looking round at them, his plump face bland and inscrutable.

George Box, part-time theatre critic and part-time crook who had as yet escaped the attentions of the police, surveyed his assistants and his prisoner.

“Where’s Casson?” he demanded.

“In the office.” Mr. Knapp indicated a further door on the opposite side of the cellar. “Mr. Levine and Jamieson are there, too.”

Box nodded. The room he entered, although a cellar like the first, presented a very different appearance. Its walls had been painted and a fitted carpet covered the floor. It was also furnished for comfort.

The three men who lounged on the couch before the electric fire were different from their colleagues without. Here was the nucleus of the powerful organisation which caused Scotland Yard so much anxiety. There was Casson, a small wiry man with a toothbrush moustache, Jamieson, a quiet, grey-faced business man and Levine, perhaps the cleverest of the three. He was an elderly dapper Frenchman, irreproachably dressed in the latest fashion.

Box took off his hat and coat and threw them on a chair.

“Really, Casson,” he said mildly, “I wish you wouldn’t leave your lady friends about my flat without warning me. I had a visitor at the time, and it was very awkward. I’ve got nothing against the girl, mind you. It was only the way she intruded. You don’t mind me mentioning it, do you?”

Casson started up in alarm.

“Oh! Who was there? I didn’t know what to do with the girl. I couldn’t very well have her here. The flat seemed the safest place to leave her.”

Box sat down on the arm of the couch.

“Suppose we get this thing straight,” he said, “who on earth is she?”

Casson and Levine exchanged glances. In spite of Box’s light manner there was something sinister in his tone, an implied reproach which they were quick to notice.

“We found her in the tube, hiding. She didn’t give any account of herself, and it occurred to me that she might be dangerous.”

It was Levine who spoke, his slight French accent clipping the words.

Box smiled. “I see. So you tied her up and left her in the flat for me to deal with? I recognised your voice, Casson, over the microphone. I only hope that Inspector Fisher didn’t make a mental note of it also.”

“Inspector Fisher?”

All three men stared at him.

“In the flat? Then he knows?”

“Everything,” said Box complacently. “He’s seen some of the gadgets and was suitably impressed. I admit the sensational appearance of the girl was more than I’d bargained for.”

“But how did he get there? How did he find it?”

“I invited him, and I showed him.” Box’s smile broadened.

Jamieson rose to his feet and peered into the round, smiling face.

“What are you playing at, Box?”

“Sit down. Don’t worry. Let me explain. It occurred to me that the police activities in the WX-Fifteen district are beginning to irritate. Frankly, Jamieson, it is getting too hot. I considered the matter and decided that the best thing to do was to give them something to get their teeth into. I’ve been cultivating Fisher for some time, as you know. He holds the interesting theory that I’m an idle fool.”

Box paused for a moment, smiling, as if pleased by his own cleverness.

‘This is our last job. We want the police fully occupied while we make our various getaways. Since we shall no longer require the fiat I told him I’d rented it for an aunt of mine and that I thought there was something odd about it. At first he wasn’t interested, but when I gave him the address he perked up his ears and came along this evening. I showed him over the place, and was just going to leave him to draw his own conclusion when the girl made her sensational entry. Now, Casson, she got away and Fisher went after her. If he catches her how much will she be able to tell him?”

“Not much,” said Casson quickly. “Fortunately, not much. We didn’t bring her here at all. We blindfolded her in the tube and took her up through the garage. She’d never recognise it again.”

“Who do you think she was? A policewoman?”

“No, I don’t think so. She’s too young for that. I can’t imagine what she was doing.”

Box’s eyes narrowed. “You ought to have found out.”

The other three men were silent, and their leader rose and walked down the room.

“I’ve covered our tracks with regard to the flat. Blakeney put it in the hands of the agent this morning, and I took it out an hour later. If there’s an inquiry in that direction, we’re covered.” He paused. “Now to work, since our friend in the next room has had about twelve hours to think it over, perhaps he may consider our proposition with a little more interest. Suppose we have him in.”

An ugly light came into Jamieson’s eyes.

‘The man’s a fool,” he said. “I’m in favour of using a certain amount of force. You’d almost believe he wants to serve his sentence.”

Box regarded his colleague with mild disapproval.

“My dear fellow, why so crude?” he said. “Do remember we’re business men, even if our methods are a little unorthodox. You keep reverting to the bang-him-on-the-head school of thought, I don’t like it.”

“That’s all very well, Box,” it was Casson who spoke, “but we’ve got the fellow here, and as long as he’s here he is a source of potential danger to us. If he’s discovered, things could be very awkward indeed. Don’t forget Parker!”

A regretful expression spread over Box’s round, friendly face.

“That was a pity. I admit that,” he said. “But the fellow was half out of the garage window. I agree with Bill—it was the only thing he could have done. Besides, he knew too much. Now I think we’ll concentrate on the business in hand. Let’s sit round the table, shall we? Casson, I wonder if you’d mind bringing our obstinate guest in from the other room.”

Box took the head of the table, and Joseph Thurtle sat opposite him. His eyes were heavy, but there was still a sullen expression on his mouth, and his hands were clenched.

The other three men showed their reactions towards the situation in different ways. Jamieson was palpably nervous. The murder of Inspector Parker had shaken him and he was afraid. His fear made him savage, and he glared at their captive as though he could hardly keep his hands off him.

Levine was impassive, save for his bright black eyes which were fixed upon Thurtle’s drawn face. Casson watched Box, grudging admiration in the half smile on his lips. That individual was the only one of the party who seemed completely at ease.

“Well, Mr. Thurtle,” Box said, “you look tired. I do hope you haven’t found your companions in the other room too boring. It is astounding how irritating one’s intellectual inferiors can be if one lives with them. Suppose we take up our conversation where we left it yesterday?”

“I don’t want to treat with you. You can hand me over to the police, if you like. I’m at the end of my tether. I’m done.”

“Well!” continued Box. “And I always thought you were an ambitious man. Come, come Mr. Thurtle! This isn’t the way to behave with friends who have gone to the extent of getting rid of a too-attentive police officer and rescuing you. Suppose we talk business. You have a son in London, Mr. Thurtle.”

For the first time during the conversation a flicker of animation came into the financier’s dull eyes.

“He can’t be here yet,” he said before he could check himself.

Box smiled.

“I’m glad to be able to give you the good news,” he said. “Your son arrived at Southampton on board the
Elephantine
late last night. Naturally the authorities have no quarrel with him, and apart from a somewhat sketchy surveillance, they’re leaving him alone. I imagine their interest in him would be considerably increased if they realised that he carries half a million about with him—that half million which you, Mr. Thurtle, were clever enough to rescue from the crash.”

‘That’s a lie!”

The man was on his feet now facing his enemies. His eyes were blazing and he had all the dark defiance of an animal at bay in his quivering form.

“Well, well, well, why so defiant? You shouldn’t protest so much. It makes people think. As I was saying before you interrupted me, I’m sure the authorities will be more interested in young Mr. Thurtle when they hear the piece of information I shall be able to give them. In fact, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it didn’t alter their view completely, and if young Mr. Rupert Thurtle were to stand in the dock beside you.”

“But he’s innocent,” the old man persisted. “He didn’t realise what he was doing, and I didn’t enlighten him. The fault is mine—entirely mine—and I’m prepared to pay for it.”

“Well, let’s hope the authorities will take the same view,” said Box pleasantly. “I’ve often found, however,” he went on in a conversational tone, “that’s it’s very difficult indeed to convince them of a thing like that. They’re inclined to be obstinate. Officialdom, you know—the ruin of the country.”

Beads of sweat appeared on the financier’s forehead. “You’re a fiend,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

Jamieson grunted. It was an expression of relief. Box’s smile became, if possible, even more bland than before.

“I must say I prefer you in this kind of mood, Mr. Thurtle,” he said. “It brings out the softer side of your character, if I may say so. Well, now, suppose I outline this simple little proposition to you.

“In the first place, my friends and I are not greedy. We should hate you to think that. We are prepared to go shares with you—equal shares. Write a letter to your son instructing him to pay us half of the money he holds for you and we will release you. We will hand you over to him at any place he cares to name, so long as we are convinced that there is no police trap. Well, now, that’s very fair, isn’t it?”

The financier sat down.

“No!” he said. “I won’t. You can do what you like but I’ll never write that letter.”

Box shrugged his shoulders. “What a pity,” he said. “I can sympathise with you, of course. I can see your point of view and I’m inclined to admire it, but you see how it places me. I am a man of conscience. In fact, my conscience is very strong and very active. In order to chloroform it, shall we say, I require a quarter of a million pounds. If it is not forthcoming, and this confounded conscience of mine remains active, I shall have to go to the authorities in my capacity of a loyal citizen and tell them what I know. Your son is quite young, isn’t he? It seems a pity. Twenty years, or even ten or fifteen, taken out of his life at this time will ruin him completely. What a pity!”