Mystery Mile Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Margery Allingham in the Albert Campion series

  Map

  Dedication

  Title Page

  1 Among Those Present

  2 The Simister Legend

  3 Mystery Mile

  4 The Lord of the Manor

  5 The Seven Whistlers

  6 The Man in Dress Clothes

  7 By the Light of the Hurricane

  8 The Envelope

  9 ‘In Event of Trouble . . .’

  10 The Insanity of Swithin Cush

  11 The Maze

  12 The Dead End

  13 The Blue Suitcase

  14 Campion to Move

  15 The Exuberance of Mr Kettle

  16 The Wheels Go Round

  17 ‘Gent on a Bike’

  18 The Unspeakable Thos

  19 The Tradesmen’s Entrance

  20 The Profession

  21 Mr Campion’s Nerve

  22 The Rough-House

  23 And How!

  24 ‘Once More Into the Breach, Dear Friends’

  25 The Bait

  26 One End of the String

  27 Late Night Finale

  28 Moral

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Judge Crowdy Lobbett has found evidence pointing to the identity of the criminal mastermind behind the deadly Simister gang. After four attempts on his life, he ends up seeking the help of the enigmatic and unorthodox amateur sleuth, Albert Campion.

  After Campion bundles Lobbett off to a country house in Mystery Mile deep in the Suffolk countryside, all manner of adventures ensue. It’s a race against time for Campion to get the judge to safety and decipher the clue to their mysterious enemy’s name.

  About the Author

  Margery Allingham was born in London in 1904. She attended the Perse School in Cambridge before returning to London to the Regent Street Polytechnic. Her father – author H. J. Allingham – encouraged her to write, and was delighted when she contributed to her aunt’s cinematic magazine, The Picture Show, at the age of eight.

  Her first novel was published when she was seventeen. In 1928 she published her first detective story, The White Cottage Mystery, which had been serialised in the Daily Express. The following year, in The Crime at Black Dudley, she introduced the character who was to become the hallmark of her writing – Albert Campion. Her novels heralded the more sophisticated suspense genre: characterised by her intuitive intelligence, extraordinary energy and accurate observation, they vary from the grave to the openly satirical, whilst never losing sight of the basic rules of the classic detective tale. Famous for her London thrillers, such as Hide My Eyes and The Tiger in the Smoke, she has been compared to Dickens in her evocation of the city’s shady underworld.

  In 1927 she married the artist, journalist and editor Philip Youngman Carter. They divided their time between their Bloomsbury flat and an old house in the village of Tolleshunt D’Arcy in Essex. Margery Allingham died in 1966.

  ALSO BY MARGERY ALLINGHAM IN THE ALBERT CAMPION SERIES

  The Crime at Black Dudley

  Look to the Lady

  Police at the Funeral

  Sweet Danger

  Death of a Ghost

  Dancers in Mourning

  Flowers for the Judge

  The Case of the Late Pig

  Mr Campion and Others

  The Fashion in Shrouds

  Black Plumes

  Coroner’s Pidgin

  Traitor’s Purse

  The Casebook of Mr Campion

  More Work for the Undertaker

  The Tiger in the Smoke

  The Beckoning Lady

  The China Governess

  The Mind Readers

  A Cargo of Eagles

  Mr Campion’s Farthing

  Mr Campion’s Falcon

  To P.Y.C. and A.J.G.

  Partners in Crime

  Mystery Mile

  Margery Allingham

  1 Among Those Present

  ‘I’LL BET YOU fifty dollars, even money,’ said the American who was sitting nearest the door in the opulent lounge of the homeward-bound Elephantine, ‘that that man over there is murdered within a fortnight.’

  The Englishman at his side glanced across the sea of chairs at the handsome old man they had been watching. ‘Ten pounds,’ he said. ‘All right, I’ll take you. You’ve no idea what a safe little place England is.’

  A slow smile spread over the American’s face. ‘You’ve got no idea what a dangerous old fellow Crowdy Lobbett is,’ he said. ‘If your police are going to look after him they’ll have to keep him in a steel bandbox, and I don’t envy them that job. It’s almost a pity to take your money, though I’m giving you better odds than any Insurance Corporation in the States would offer.’

  ‘The whole thing sounds fantastic to me,’ said the Englishman. ‘But I’ll meet you at Verrey’s a fortnight today and we’ll make a night of it. That suit you?’

  ‘The twenty-second,’ said the American, making a note of it in his book. ‘Seems kind of heathen celebrating over the old man’s corpse. He’s a great old boy.’

  ‘Drinking his health, you mean,’ said the Englishman confidently. ‘Scotland Yard is very spry these days. That reminds me,’ he added cheerfully, ‘I must take you to one of our night clubs.’

  On the other side of the ship’s lounge the loquacious Turk who had made himself such a nuisance to his fellow passengers since they put out from New York was chattering to his latest victim.

  ‘Very courageous of him to come down for the concert,’ he was saying. ‘He’s a marked man, you know. I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. Four murders in his household within the past month and each time his escape was a miracle.’

  His victim, a pale young man who seemed to be trying to hide behind his enormous spectacles, woke out of the reverie into which he had fallen ever since the talkative Oriental had first tackled him and surveyed his persecutor owlishly. ‘Not that nice old gentleman over there?’ he said. ‘The one with the white hair? Four murders in his house within a month? That ought to be stopped. He’s been told about it, I suppose?’

  Since this was the first remark with which the young man had favoured him, the bore jumped to the conclusion that he had inadvertently stumbled on a mental case. It was inconceivable to him that anyone should not have heard of the now famous Misfire Murders, as the Press had starred them, which had filled the New York papers for the past four weeks. The young man spoke.

  ‘Who is the stormy old petrel?’ he said.

  His companion looked at him with some of the delight which a born gossip always feels upon finding an uninformed listener. His heavy red face became animated and he cocked his curious pear-shaped head, which alone betrayed his nationality, alertly on one side.

  ‘That fine old man, typical of the best type of hard-bitten New Englander,’ he began in a rhetorical whisper, ‘is none other than Judge Crowdy Lobbett. He has been the intended victim of an extraordinary series of crimes. I can’t understand how you’ve missed reading about it all.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been away in Nebraska for my health,’ said the young man. ‘He-man stuff, you know,’ he added in his slightly falsetto voice.

  He spoke with the utmost gravity, and the old man nodded unsuspectingly and continued.

  ‘First his secretary, seated in his master’s chair, was shot,’ he said slowly. ‘Then his butler, who was apparently after his master’s Scotch, got poisoned. Then his chauffeur met with a very mysterious accident, and finally a man walking with him down the street got a coping stone on his head.’ He sat back and regarded his companion almost triumpha
ntly. ‘What do you say to that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Shocking,’ said the young man. ‘Very bad taste on someone’s part. Rotten marksmanship, too,’ he added, after some consideration, ‘I suppose he’s travelling for health now, like me?’

  The Turk bent nearer and assumed a more confidential tone.

  ‘They say,’ he mumbled, in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his voice down, ‘that it was all young Marlowe Lobbett could do to get his father to come to Europe at all. I admire a man like that, a man who’s not afraid of what’s coming to him.’

  ‘Oh, quite!’ said the young man mildly. ‘The neat piece of modern youthing with the old gentleman is the son you spoke of, I suppose?’

  The Turk nodded.

  ‘That’s right, and the girl sitting on his other side is his daughter. That very black hair gives them a sort of distinction. Funny that the boy should be so big and the girl so small. She takes after her mother, one of the Edwardeses of Tennessee, you know.’

  ‘When’s the concert going to begin?’

  The Turk smiled. He felt he had consummated the acquaintanceship at last.

  ‘My name is Barber,’ he said. ‘Ali Fergusson Barber – a rather stupid joke of my parents, I have always thought.’

  He looked inquiringly at his companion, hoping for a similar exchange of confidence, but he was unrewarded. The young man appeared to have forgotten all about him, and presently to the Oriental’s complete disgust, he drew a small white mouse from the pocket of his jacket and began to fondle it in his hands. Finally he held it out for Mr Barber’s inspection.

  ‘Rather pretty, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘One of the cabin boys lent it to me. He keeps it to remind him of his brother, Haig. He calls it Haig, after him.’

  Mr Barber looked down his immense nose at the little creature, and edged away from it.

  The young man said no more, for already a very golden-haired lady with pince-nez was playing the Sixth Hungarian Rhapsody with a certain amount of acid gusto.

  Her performance was greeted with only mild enthusiasm, and the Turk overcame his repugnance to the noise sufficiently to lean over and inform the young man that there were several stage stars travelling and no doubt the programme would improve as it went on. For some time, however, his optimism was unrewarded.

  At length the fussy, sandy-haired young man who was superintending the performance came forward with the announcement that Satsuma, the world-famous Japanese conjurer, was to perform some of his most celebrated illusions, and the audience’s patience was craved while the stage was made ready for him.

  For the first time Mr Barber’s companion seemed to take an intelligent interest in the proceedings and he joined enthusiastically in the applause.

  ‘I’m potty about conjurers,’ he remarked affably. ‘Haig will like it too, I fancy. I’m most interested to see the effect upon him.’

  Mr Barber smiled indulgently.

  ‘You are making jokes,’ he said naïvely.

  The young man shot him a quick glance from behind his spectacles. ‘I do a little conjuring myself,’ he went on confidentially. ‘And I once knew a man who could always produce a few potatoes out of the old topper, or a half bottle of Bass. He once got in some champagne that way, but it wasn’t much of a brand. Hullo! what’s going on up there?’

  He peered at the platform with childlike interest.

  Several enthusiastic amateurs, aided by an electrician, were engaged in setting up the magician’s apparatus on the small stage. The piano had to be moved to make way for the great ‘disappearing’ cabinet, and the audience watched curiously while the cables were connected and the various gaily-coloured cupboards and boxes were set in position.

  The magician himself was directing operations from behind a screen, and at length, when the last scene-shifter had departed, he came forward and bowed ceremoniously.

  He was tall for a Japanese, and dark-skinned, with a clever face much too small for him.

  Mr Barber nudged the young man at his side.

  ‘Old Lobbett doesn’t let his troubles damp his interest, does he?’ he rumbled, as he glanced across the room to where the man who had been the subject of so much speculation sat forward in his chair. His keenness and excitement were almost childlike, and after a moment or two, dissatisfied with his view of the stage, he left his seat and walked up to the front row, where he stood watching. Mr Barber’s companion made no comment. He appeared to be engrossed in his small pet mouse, which he held up, apparently with the idea of allowing the little animal to watch the performance.

  The magician began with one or two sleight-of-hand tricks, presenting each illusion with a topical patter.

  ‘Very clever. Very clever,’ murmured Mr Barber in his stentorian undertone. ‘They say those tricks are handed down from generation to generation. I think it’s all done with mirrors myself.’

  His acquaintance did not reply. He was sitting bolt upright, staring at the stage through his heavy glasses.

  Satsuma produced ducks, goldfish, pigeons, and even a couple of Japanese ladies, with amazing dexterity, and the distressing Mr Barber beat his fat hands together delightedly, while far across the room old Lobbett also was clearly enchanted.

  Eventually the magician came forward to the front of the tiny stage and made the announcement which always preceded his most famous trick.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘it has only been by the kind co-operation of the electrical staff on board that I am now able to show you this most remarkable trick – the greatest I have ever performed.’

  He stepped back a pace or two and tapped the huge disappearing cabinet which had taken up the greater part of the stage during his entire act. He touched a button hidden in the moulding, and immediately the cabinet was illuminated until it glowed all over in a series of diagonal designs of light.

  The Japanese beamed upon his audience.

  ‘By the aid of this cabinet,’ he said, ‘I will make to disappear not just one of my assistants, but any one of you who will come up and help me.’ He paused to let his full meaning sink in upon his audience. ‘I will make them to disappear and to reappear,’ he went on. ‘And if, after the experience, any one of them can explain how the miracle was performed, then’ – with a great gesture of solemnity – ‘I throw myself into the sea.’

  He waited until the polite laughter had subsided, and then went on briskly.

  ‘Who will come first? You, sir, you?’ he added, pointing out Mr Barber, who was by far the most conspicuous person before him.

  The Turk shook his head and laughed.

  ‘Ah! no, my boy. No. I am too old for these adventures.’

  The Japanese smiled and passed on. The pale young man in the spectacles jumped up, however.

  ‘I’ll disappear,’ he said, in his somewhat foolish voice. ‘I think Haig would like to,’ he murmured to the Oriental by way of explanation.

  He went forward eagerly, but paused, as there was some commotion across the room. Judge Lobbett, in spite of his son’s obvious disapproval, was already halfway up the steps to the stage. He also paused as the young man appeared, and the two men stood irresolute until the magician, coming forward, beckoned them both on to the stage.

  ‘One after the other,’ he said easily. ‘The first to come, the first to be served.’

  He helped the judge up as he spoke, and the pale young man leaped up beside them.

  ‘I say,’ he said nervously, ‘would you mind if my pet went first?’

  He held up the white mouse as he spoke, while the audience, thinking it was some intentional comic relief, tittered complacently.

  Satsuma smiled also, but his English was not equal to the situation, and, ignoring the young man, he led Judge Lobbett over to the cabinet.

  ‘Haig,’ announced the foolish-looking young man in a loud voice, ‘will be more than disappointed if he’s not allowed to go first. This is his birthday and he’s been promised the best and the first of everything. Surely, sir,’ he
went on, turning to the old man, ‘you wouldn’t deprive my young friend of his birthday thrill?’

  Judge Lobbett contented himself by regarding the young man with a slow cold smile for some seconds, but the other appeared not in the least abashed.

  Meanwhile, with a flourish from the orchestra, Satsuma touched the cabinet with his wand and the doors swung open, disclosing a safe-like metal-lined compartment whose grilled sides shone in the brilliant light.

  ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the magician, turning to his audience, ‘I shall invite this gentleman’ – he indicated the older man – ‘to step in here. Then I shall close these doors. When I open them again he will be gone. You shall search the whole ship, ladies and gentlemen, the stage, under the stage – you shall not find him. Then I will shut the doors once more. Once more they will fly open, and this gentleman shall be back again as you see him now. Moreover, he will not be able to tell you where he has been hiding. Now, sir, if you please.’

  ‘What?’ said the irrepressible young man, darting forward, consternation in his pale eyes. ‘Can’t Haig go first? Are you going to disappoint him after all?’

  The audience was becoming restive, and Lobbett turned upon the importunate one, mildly annoyed.

  ‘I don’t know who you are, sir,’ he said, in a low tone, ‘but you’re making a darn nuisance of yourself. I’m genuinely interested in this experiment, and I think everyone else is. Go and play with your mouse on deck, sir.’

  On the last word he turned and stepped towards the cabinet, the doors of which stood open to receive him. The man who, by this time, was regarded by everyone in the room as a source of embarrassment, seemed suddenly to lose all sense of decorum.

  With an angry exclamation he elbowed the unsuspecting old man out of the way, and before the magician could stop him deliberately dropped the small white mouse upon the glittering floor of the cabinet.

  Then he stepped back sharply.

  There was a tiny hiss, only just loud enough to be heard among the audience: a sickening, terrifying sound.

  For a moment everyone in the lounge held his breath. With a convulsive movement the mouse crumpled up on the polished steel grille, where it slowly blackened and shrivelled before their eyes.