Mr Campion & Others Page 10

  George hesitated. ‘It might,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, if it’s any help to you. I took that wallet from the inside waistcoat pocket of a brown tweed suit. I remember it distinctly – a brown tweed suit. What the number was I can’t say.’

  The girl pounced on the ledger and ran her finger down a column of hieroglyphics.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, grinning at Campion. ‘That’s how it happened. I took George’s writing the wrong way up. One-nine-one was a brown tweed suit. The fellow came in for it half an hour ago.’

  A muffled exclamation escaped the Superintendent, but Campion interrupted him.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Was he by any chance a very tall, well-set-up man, about fifty-five to sixty? Grey hair, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ The girl seemed surprised. ‘I didn’t see his hair because he had a hat on, but he wasn’t young. I noticed him particularly, being so tall. He was a bit hasty too. He said his landlady had taken the suit to be cleaned without his knowing – seemed quite shirty about it. He didn’t ask about the wallet.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ said Campion. ‘He wouldn’t want to call your attention to it.’

  ‘He’ll come back,’ put in Oates suddenly. ‘When he gets that parcel undone and finds he’s lost the wallet he’ll come back, if he doesn’t see us first. We must clear out. Now look here, my dear, here’s the wallet. It’s got two stamps and a ticket in it. When he comes, give it to him, and whatever you do don’t act in any way that may make him suspicious. Can I rely on you?’

  She nodded and stretched out a firm, capable hand for the black folder.

  The Superintendent hurried his friend from the shop, and the waiting sergeant in the taxi received his instructions.

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ he said, touching his felt hat. ‘I’ll lay for him and I’ll tail him. He won’t get away from me.’

  Oates nodded and thrust Campion into the cab.

  ‘The Yard first to get the stuff, and then Charing Cross,’ he said briefly. ‘Is that how you were figuring it out, Campion?’

  The younger man leaned back in the cab.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said contentedly. ‘There’s nothing like a fair cop.’

  Herbert, who had watched the proceedings with his little ferret’s eyes glistening with excitement, ventured a question.

  ‘Are we going to see Sir Matthew now, sir?’

  Campion glanced at Oates.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Herbert, but no. For the time being the aristocracy is out of it. But we’re going to meet a celebrity, I fancy, and when we see him we’re going to take his fingerprints.’

  The Superintendent regarded his friend with eyes that were bright and suspicious.

  ‘I want a word or two with you, my lad,’ he said. ‘What do you know about this chap we’re after? When did you see him?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Mr Campion.

  ‘What about that description you gave the girl?’

  ‘That was rather good, wasn’t it?’ Campion agreed grinning. ‘I made that up.’

  Oates opened his mouth to speak but caught sight of Herbert’s fascinated gaze and thought better of it.

  ‘Wait till I get you on your own,’ he murmured, and rapped on the window to urge the driver to hurry.

  The next fifteen minutes did not give anybody much opportunity for conversation. The cab paused for a moment at the Yard to take on board two plain-clothes men and the bag of silver, and afterwards swung round to speed back to Charing Cross Station.

  ‘If I know the type we shan’t have long to wait,’ said Oates as he and Campion took up their positions in a convenient doorway, which afforded them a good view of the cloakroom window. ‘As soon as he gets his hands on that ticket he’ll beetle down here and make sure that the stuff is safe. I’m trusting that girl.’

  Campion glanced casually across the station to where two inconspicuous plain-clothes figures were lounging by the bookstall.

  ‘The clerk’s giving them the sign, is he?’

  Oates nodded. ‘Yes, they understand one another. He’s a good man, that clerk. The way he corroborated Herbert Boot’s story was intelligent and convincing. My fellows have got to rely on him. They haven’t the least idea who they’re waiting for, see?’

  Campion coughed.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll miss him,’ he murmured. ‘He’s a distinctive sort of chap, you know.’

  Oates swung round on him. ‘Damn it, Campion, what do you know about this business?’ he demanded. ‘This tale about the tall elderly man: where did you get it from?’

  ‘Wait.’ Campion laid a restraining hand on his friend’s arm and nodded towards a figure which had come striding in through the crowd. The man was striking and even distinguished. Well over six feet four, he was very erect, with a clean-shaven, sharp-featured face which must, in youth, have been remarkably handsome.

  Oates stiffened, a startled expression creeping into his eyes.

  ‘Recognise him?’ murmured Campion.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ The Superintendent’s voice was wondering, and he stepped forward at the same moment as the two Yard men darted out into the open and closed in on either side of the stranger as he took the heavy, battered suitcase from the cloakroom counter. There was only a very brief struggle.

  The tall man glanced shrewdly at his adversaries.

  ‘I guess I’m too old for a scrap, boys,’ he said. ‘I’ll come quietly. It’s all there in the bag – oh, you know that, do you?’

  As Mr Campion and the Superintendent drove quietly back to the Yard together Oates was still thoughtful.

  ‘It must be nearly thirty years ago,’ he said at last. ‘I was a sergeant at the Thames Court Police Station, I remember, and we had that fellow in the cells there for a couple of days. I can’t think of his name, but as soon as I set eyes on him this afternoon I recognised him. He looks much older, of course, but you can’t mistake that height or that face. What was his name, now?’

  Mr Campion hesitated. ‘Does “The Shiner” convey anything to you?’ he said diffidently.

  ‘The Shiner! That’s it, The Shiner!’ The Superintendent’s voice rose with excitement. ‘By George, it’s the same lark, too – old silver shipped to a fence in Amsterdam. That’s him. Good heavens, Campion, how did you know?’

  The younger man looked pleased.

  ‘Oh, it occurred to me, you know,’ he asid modestly. ‘I was in old Florian’s shop yesterday, talking about these burglaries, and he got reminiscing about crooks who had specialised in old silver in the past. He mentioned this chap, The Shiner, and said he hadn’t been heard of since he came out of jail. Florian also said that The Shiner used to do his early burglaries in full guardsman’s uniform.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Oates. ‘So he did. Amazing vanity these fellows have. A guardsman before the war was a picturesque figure, and there were a lot of them about in London.’

  Campion ignored the interruption.

  ‘The fancy dress appealed to me,’ he said, ‘and I was thinking about it, and also your mysterious Question Mark, when the astonishing points of similarity between the two occurred to me. I didn’t see how it worked out, of course, until I’d heard Herbert’s contribution and put things together a bit.’

  Oates shook his head.

  ‘I’ll buy it,’ he said. ‘I don’t see any similarity between the Question Mark and The Shiner. One was a bent, sinister figure straightening up to run, and the other made himself conspicuous in a red tunic. They both pinched silver, I know, but if you can see any other likeness between the two you’re a cleverer man than I am, or off your head.’

  ‘It’s imagination you lack, guv’nor.’ Mr Campion regarded his friend regretfully. ‘Think of the fellow. See him in your mind’s eye. What is his one inescapable and most damning characteristic? His height. Think of it! What was he to do?’

  ‘Good Lord!’ The Superintendent sat up.

  ‘You’re right
,’ he said slowly. ‘Of course. It didn’t occur to me at once. The uniform disguised him when he was young, it didn’t make him conspicuous. Everyone expected to see a tall soldier in a scarlet tunic. A shorter man would have looked peculiar. When he came back and started up again he had to think of something else, I suppose, so he counterfeited a stoop for the actual job, only straightening up when he made a dash for it. Wait a minute, though; he was seen running. The witness didn’t mention his height.’

  ‘Because she didn’t see it,’ Campion protested. ‘She only saw him from above. It was that that strengthened my first suspicion. By the way, there’ll be no need to interview Sir Matthew now, I take it?’

  ‘No, it’s a fair cop.’ Oates spoke with satisfaction. ‘We caught him with the stuff. That’s good enough. You’re saved again, Campion, or your girl friend is. Give her my regards and tell her she doesn’t know how lucky she is to have a lucky pal.’

  Mr Campion opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. In his experience it was far more comfortable to be considered lucky than clever by any policeman. He was silent for some time and sat looking out of the window, a faint smile playing round his lips.

  The Superintendent glanced at him.

  ‘What are you thinking of now?’ he inquired suspiciously.

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Mr Campion truthfully, ‘I was just wondering who young Gracie was going to get engaged to next.’

  5

  The Old Man in the Window

  NEWLY APPOINTED SUPERINTENDENT Stanislaus Oates was by no means intoxicated, but he was cheerful, as became a man celebrating an important advance in a distinguished career, and Mr Campion, who sat opposite him at the small table in the corner of the chop-house, surveyed the change in his usually taciturn friend with interest.

  ‘This promotion puts me into the memoir class when I retire, you know,’ observed the ex-Inspector suddenly with uncharacteristic ingenuousness. ‘I could write a first-rate book if someone put it down for me. We professionals get to know all kinds of things, interesting stuff a lot of it, that you amateurs never come across; things you’d never consider worth noticing. I struck something very curious today. Big business is extraordinary, Campion. Amazing inducements to crime in it. Let me tell you something about company law.’

  Mr Campion grinned. ‘Tell the world as well,’ he suggested affably, for the Superintendent’s voice had risen. ‘I thought you said this place was deserted in the evening,’ he went on, stretching his long thin legs under the table and adjusting his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘It seems to me to be pretty well crowded with youth and – er – passion.’

  The ex-Inspector’s innate caution reasserted itself and as he glanced about him his long face took on its natural melancholy expression.

  ‘Must have suddenly become fashionable,’ he said gloomily. ‘That’s the trouble with these places. The word goes round that So-and-so’s is good, quiet and cheap, and what happens? Before you know where you are a great bunch of goggle-eyed sweethearts swoop down on it and up go the prices while the food goes to pieces. There’s a lad over there out with someone he doesn’t intend to take home to meet the family.’

  Mr Campion, glancing casually over his thin shoulder, caught a glimpse of a heavily jowled face beneath a domed head prematurely bald, and beyond it the dark curls and crimson lips of a girl in a grey hat. He looked away again hastily.

  ‘The name is March,’ said Oates, whose spirits were reviving. ‘Member of the big theatrical machinery firm. Funny we should see him. It reminds me of what I was going to tell you. They’re in low water again, you know.’

  His voice promised to carry across the small print-hung room and Mr Campion protested.

  ‘Does alcohol always make you shout?’ he enquired gently. ‘Don’t bellow. I know the fellow quite well by sight. We’re members of the same club.’

  ‘Really? I heard the clubs were having a thin time,’ said Oates more quietly but unabashed. ‘Still, I didn’t know they had to let anyone in.’

  Mr Campion looked hurt. ‘He’s a valued and respected member as far as I know,’ he said, ‘and may very well be out with his wife.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Oates cheerfully. ‘That little kid is on at the Frivolity, or was until the show closed last week. And what’s more, my lad, Mr Arthur March is due to marry someone else in less than a month. A good policeman studies everything, even the gossip columns, and that bears out what I told you about you amateurs not being thorough. You don’t collect sufficient out-of-the-way information. Take this company law, for instance …’

  He broke off, a light of interest in his mournful grey eyes. From where they sat the view of the entrance was unobstructed and Campion, following his glance, saw two young people come in. Superintendent Stanislaus Oates grinned broadly.

  ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘That’s the girl March is engaged to – Denise Warren. She’s out on the spree with a boy friend too. They’ve come here because they’ve heard it’s quiet, I bet you. They haven’t seen March yet.’

  Mr Campion did not speak. He was looking at the girl. She was an unusual type, taller than the average and very fair, with wide-apart blue-grey eyes and a magnificent carriage.

  Her companion was a square, solid young man only a few years her senior. He was not unhandsome and had an air of authority about him unusual in one of his age. They found a table and settled down in full view of Campion and his guest. Oates was frankly delighted.

  ‘They’ll see each other in a moment,’ he said with schoolboy mischievousness. ‘Who’s the fellow with her? Do you know?’

  Mr Campion was frowning. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘That’s Rupert Fielding, a surgeon. He’s young but an absolute prodigy, they say. I hope he’s not playing the fool. His is the one profession that still demands absolute conventionality.’

  Oates grinned: ‘Another member of the club?’

  Campion echoed his smile. ‘Yes, as it happens. Spends all his spare time there. Gives the older members a sense of security, I think.’

  Oates glanced at the girl again. ‘Oh well, she’s keeping it in the family, isn’t she? What is this famous club? Not Puffin’s?’

  ‘No. Quite as respectable if not so eminent. The Junior Greys, Pall Mall.’

  Oates sat up with interest. ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that the place where the old boy sits in the window all day?’

  ‘Old Rosemary?’

  ‘That’s the man. One of the landmarks of London. Hasn’t changed in fifty years. It’s a funny thing, I was hearing of him today, as I was going to tell you. Is he as old as they say?’

  ‘He’s ninety some time this year.’

  ‘Really?’ The Superintendent was interested. ‘I’ve seen him, of course, dozens of times. You can’t very well miss him sitting there in that great window. He looks young enough from the street. Scraggy men like yourself wear well. What’s he like close to?’

  Mr Campion considered. He was eager to give serious attention to any subject which would divert his guest’s embarrassing attention from his two fellow-members and their more intimate affairs.

  ‘One doesn’t get very close to him in the ordinary way,’ he said at last. ‘That bay window is his holy of holies. There’s a draught screen round the back of his chair and a table between him and the rest of the room. I’m seldom there early enough to see him come in in the morning but I meet him tottering out at half-past six now and again.’

  ‘He’s frail then?’ the Superintendent persisted. ‘Frail but young-looking? I’m sorry to be so inquisitive,’ he added, ‘but I don’t like freaks. How young does he actually look close to in a good light?’

  Mr Campion hesitated. ‘He’s very well preserved,’ he began at last. ‘Had all kinds of things done to him.’

  ‘Oh, facial stuff, rejuvenation, toupets, special teeth to take out the hollows – I know.’ The Superintendent spoke with contempt. ‘That accounts for it. I hate that sort of thing. It’s
bad enough in old women but in old men it’s revolting.’

  He paused and, evidently thinking that he might have expressed himself ungraciously, added handsomely: ‘Of course, when you remember he was a famous actor it doesn’t seem so bad. He was one of the first of the stage knights, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I believe so. Sir Charles Rosemary, one of the great figures of the eighties. I believe he was magnificent.’

  ‘And now he spends his days sitting in a window trying to look sixty,’ the Superintendent murmured. ‘Is it true he does it all day and every day?’

  ‘An unbroken record of twenty years, I believe,’ said Mr Campion, who was growing weary of the catechism. ‘It’s quite a legend. He comes up to the club at eleven o’clock and sits there until six-thirty.’

  ‘My God!’ said Oates expressively and added abruptly: ‘Hullo, he’s seen her!’

  Mr Campion gave up the hope of diverting him. The Superintendent’s round dull eyes were alight with amusement.

  ‘Look at March,’ he said. ‘He’s wild. Isn’t that typical of that sort of chap? Doesn’t seem to realise he’s in the same boat. Can you see him?’

  ‘Yes, in the mirror behind you,’ Campion admitted grudgingly. ‘Rather awkward for his guest, isn’t it?’

  ‘She’s used to it, I’d say,’ said the ex-Inspector cheerfully. ‘Look at him.’

  Arthur March was angry and appeared to be indifferent about showing it. He sat upright in his chair, staring at his fiancée and her companion with white-faced indignation. The girl opposite in the grey hat did her best to look faintly amused, but her eyes were angry.

  Campion looked at Miss Warren and caught her at the moment when curious glances from other tables directed her attention to the furious man on the other side of the room. She met his eyes for a moment and grew slowly crimson. Then she murmured something to the stolid young man at her side.

  Oates was very interested.

  ‘March is going over,’ he said suddenly. ‘No, he’s changed his mind. He’s sending a note.’

  The waiter who bore the hastily scribbled message on the half-sheet torn from a memorandum book looked considerably embarrassed and he handed it to Miss Warren with a word of apology. She glanced at it, blushed even more deeply than before, and passed it on to Fielding.