The Return of Mr Campion Page 10

  "A daughter?" Campion groped through this spate of scattered information. "She lives here, then?"

  "Of course she lives here. Where else should she live but with her mother? A child of fifteen living alone? Good heavens, whatever next?"

  Her ladyships eyebrows seemed in danger of disappearing altogether but she rattled on.

  "She's a charming little thing, I believe, although I've never had any patience with schoolchildren myself. Still, far too young for you. Put it out of your mind, dear boy. Let me see, what was I going to tell you? Oh, about the fortune-teller, of course. Quite a remarkable man. A psychometrist. Fortunately I'm never indiscreet, but really, some of the things he told me about people I knew ..."

  Her squeaky voice rose and fell and it occurred to Mr Campion that she must have told the seer quite as much as ever he told her. While she was talking he had leisure to wonder why Miss Jennifer Pelham had chosen the middle of a party to force open a locked drawer in the library of her own home, and why above all she should have been so infernally guilty about it.

  The matter did not seem of great importance, however, and he was considering how long it would be before he could decently take his leave and go home to bed when a more or less lucid paragraph in Lady Frinton's endless recitation caught his attention.

  "He took my ring and put it into an envelope. I put the envelope under the crystal and then he looked in and told me the most astonishing things about my mother. Wasn't that amazing?"

  "Your ring?" inquired Mr Campion. The old lady looked at him as though she thought he was deficient.

  "I believe you're still thinking about that child," she declared, adding spitefully, "And at your age! I've been explaining. Cagliostro is a psychometrist. You give him something that belonged to someone dead, dead or elsewhere anyway, and he tells you all about them. It's remarkable, truly remarkable."

  "Cagliostro?" inquired Campion, temporarily out of his depth. Lady Frinton threw up her tiny hands in exasperation.

  "Bless the man, he's delirious," she said, "Cagliostro the Second is the fortuneteller. Cagliostro is the man in the tent over there. Go and see him for yourself. I can't be bothered with you if you don't use your mind at all. You young people ought to take up yoga. Come and see me and I'll put you on to a very good man."

  She trotted off happily and Campion heaved a sigh of relief, yet, having a naturally inquisitive disposition, he did not go home immediately but wandered across the room to peer into the black tent before making his way back to the ballroom.

  The scene within the tent was much as he had expected. A strong overhead light shone down upon a small, black, velvet covered table which supported among other things a red satin cushion and a large crystal ball; but he was not prepared for the man who smiled at him over an unimpeachable shirt front. This Cagliostro was not the usual sleek huckster with the bright eyes and swagger which the credulous public has come to expect in its seers, but a surprisingly large man with thin fluffy hair and prominent, cold, light eyes. He did not speak but indicated the consultant's chair very slowly with a large, fin like hand.

  Campion shook his head hastily and hurried away. It was a trivial incident, but it left him oddly uncomfortable. He was even glad to get back to the ballroom.

  He stayed for another three-quarters of an hour and kept a weather eye open for the younger daughter of the house, who still interested him, but she was not in the room and he did not see her again until he was actually in the street on his way home.

  It was a fine night and as he came out into the warm darkness he decided to walk the few steps from Clarges Street to his Piccadilly home. His way took him down the side of the house, which was on a corner, and as he passed a ground-floor window sprang into light and he saw Jennifer standing by the door. She remained very still for a moment, her back against the door. There was conscious drama in her pose and Campion paused on the pavement in some astonishment. As he watched she tore open a white envelope and drew out a small flat package. Immediately all trace of theater disappeared and she became a very real girl in very real alarm.

  Jennifer shook out the package and Campion saw that it was a single sheet of newspaper. For some reason the sight of it appalled the younger Miss Pelham. She held it at arm's length and raised a white, startled face to the blank window. And that was all.

  The next moment something, presumably a sound from behind the door, caused her to start guiltily. She crumpled both newspaper and envelope into a ball and dropped it into a wastepaper basket. A second later the room was dark again.

  As Mr Campion walked on down the street he blinked behind his spectacles. The unworthy notion that the younger sister of Lord Currier's prospective bride was off her little red head occurred to him, but he rejected it and for some time as he moved on he was engrossed in idle speculation.

  However, by the time he reached Bottle Street he had decided that whatever the mystery might be it was mercifully no affair of his, and he went to bed soothed by that curiously mistaken notion.

  He heard no more of the Pelhams for nearly three weeks and had all but forgotten the tempestuous figure in the green dress when, one morning as he sat at his desk, a note was brought to him with a visiting-card on which was engraved simply "Mr Waldo Allen, New York." The note was more instructive.

  Dear Campion [wrote the Superintendent], Mr Allen has a difficult problem. While we are anxious to give him every assistance we have no information of the kind he needs. It came into my head that there is a faint chance that you may know something, so I am taking the liberty of sending him along. Yours ever, S.O. Campion grinned. The good policeman's difficulty could not have been more lucidly expressed had he added a postscript: "I cannot get rid of this chap politely, old boy. See what you can do."

  Yet when Waldo Allen, the Wall Street financier, came into the room his personality immediately captivated his host. Allen was a large, thoughtful man with a natural dignity and an air of authority which was both unconscious and impressive. He stood, stooping a little in the doorway, peering at Campion with bright, worried eyes which were faintly shy.

  "This is very kind of you," he said at last in a slow, quiet voice, and he seated himself in the armchair before the desk. He cleared his throat, hesitated, and suddenly smiled.

  "I am aware that I may sound to you as though I'm crazy," he murmured, "but this is my problem. I'm looking for a skunk, Mr Campion, and eventually I'm going to get him. I have some influence with the authorities on the other side, and your people have been kindly and considerate. With their help I think I may be able to deal with the man I want, once I can locate him, but I've got to find him first. That's my problem. Can you help me?"

  Campion sat with his head a little on one side and his pale eyes quizzical. "A skunk?" he inquired dubiously. The American nodded and the expression in his bright eyes was by no means amused.

  "A skunk," he said soberly. "The lowest animal I ever hope to come across. I've never seen him but I know he exists and I have reason to believe he's in England. Have you ever been married, Mr Campion?"

  The abruptness of the question was disconcerting and the visitor seemed disappointed when Mr Campion shook his head. Waldo Allen leant forward in his chair.

  "I have," he said. "Two years ago I married one of the most charming girls in the world. She was young and very ignorant, and like a fool I took her straight away from her parents' home in South Carolina to a penthouse in New York. I gave her everything that she wanted and introduced her to my friends. Then I got on with my work and left her to settle into life in the smart city set. I can't tell you how bitterly I've reproached myself for doing just that. If I'd had any sense I'd have realized that she needed more protection than my money, and just my money, could give her. She should have had my entire attention. I should have realized that the extraordinary simplicity and childishness which I loved in her was a danger as much as it was a charm." He paused, and the sophisticated Mr Campion found himself unexpectedly moved by the genuine pain in t
he quiet, unemotional voice. Waldo Allen looked up.

  "Six months ago she threw herself from the roof-garden surrounding our penthouse," he said slowly. "There was a lot of hush-hush business and I believe the D.A. satisfied himself that it was an accident. It was not. I wish to God it had been. That skunk had blackmailed her until she hadn't a cent or a jewel to her name and she was afraid to come to me for more." He rose abruptly and turned down the room.

  "I won't bother you with that angle," he said at last. "You must take it that it was my fault. If I'd realized what a child she was, then the whole tragedy would never have happened. But I didn't. I gave her money instead of understanding. What I have to tell you is what we discovered after her death. She had sold everything that was her own, Mr Campion, her bank-balance was nil. Large irregular withdrawals in cash told the story pretty clearly. I was nearly off my head couldn't understand it. I couldn't imagine what the child could have had to hide. But I didn't know her, you see. I didn't realist her youth or her inexperience." Campion nodded. It was impossible not to be sorry for this big, quiet man who kept such a tight rein on his well-nigh intolerable grief.

  "Did you ever discover what it was?" he inquired.

  The American smiled bitterly. "I've got a pretty shrewd idea," he said. "Sylvia had a personal maid, Dorothy, a colored girl her own age. The girl had come up with her from South Carolina. After the tragedy she broke down and told all she knew. Apparently Sylvia had kept some letters. The sentimental mementos of a boy-and-girl love affair which had fizzled out before I put in an appearance. Dorothy was not at all sure what had happened but she thought that someone had got hold of those letters and had convinced Sylvia that I would read a great deal more into them than ever they had contained. To prevent me seeing them my wife ruined herself, worked herself into a state of nervous collapse and finally killed herself. I must get my hands on that man, Mr Campion. He doesn't deserve to live."

  The younger man was silent. So often in his career he had heard similar tales that he could not now doubt this grim little story. The clever blackmailer who picks the right victim need discover very little which is truly reprehensible on which to base his threats.

  Campion stirred. "You never traced the man?"

  "Never. I've spent six months on it and I've barely a clue. Sylvia went everywhere and met all the usual people, yet she was often alone. Dorothy cannot help; the girl knows no more than I do now. I've just two things to go on and they're slender enough, God knows."

  He came up to the desk as he spoke and stood looking down gravely, his big hands resting on the polished wood.

  The first clue brought me to England. Her maid says that once Sylvia burst into tears when they were alone together and said then that she wished it were July. Dorothy asked her why, and Sylvia sat staring in front of her, a terrified expression in her eyes. "He always goes to England in July," she said, but she wouldn't explain herself and, of course, the maid didn't like to press her. That's one of my clues. I know it's slender but I'm clutching at straws. Campion's quick smile was reassuring.

  "And the other clue?" he inquired gently. Waldo Allen straightened his back.

  "Just before my wife died," he began softly, "she came into my study where I sat writing. I was very busy and, God forgive me, I didn't look at her. She put her arms round my neck, kissed me and whispered something. The next moment she had gone through the French windows, across the roof garden to her death."

  His voice quivered dangerously, but he controlled himself and went on steadily enough. "Again and again I've gone over those whispered words in my mind, but I can't get any sense out of them. I heard them distinctly." Sylvia said. "Forgive me. It's written in the ink. He must have seen it all the time. That was all. Before I could take my mind off my work and ask her what she was talking about she'd gone."

  Campion drew a desk-pad towards him and on it wrote the strange disjointed sentences in his neat, academic hand. "'It is written in the ink';" he read it aloud slowly. "Are you sure of that?" The man with the bright, worried eyes nodded gravely.

  "I'm certain," he said heavily. "Those three phrases will remain in my mind until I die. At one time I came close to persuading myself that they were evidence to the unhinged state of her brain, but now that I've seen her pitiful bank account and her empty jewel-case I can't reconcile myself to any theory of that sort. My wife was not mad, Mr Campion. To all intents and purposes she was murdered. Now you understand why I've got to get my hands on that brute. Can you help me?" Campion hesitated. From the moment when this strange, likeable personality had invaded his study to pour out a story no less tragic because it was deliberately understated, an idea had been knocking at the door of his mind. On the face of it Mr Allen's request was absurd. Even in his most self-satisfied moments Mr Campion did not presume to consider himself a magician and to undertake to look for a blackmailer who might or might not be in England and towards whose identification there was not a shred of evidence, was not the sort of quest to appeal to anyone with a reasonable opinion of his own powers.

  Yet there was something very curious about the story he had just heard, and as he sat at his desk, his eyes thoughtful behind his spectacles, suddenly he realized that there was about it a startling and uncomfortable note of familiarity. The discovery rattled him. It was like hearing a tune for the second time and not being able to place its title. The American rose.

  "I fear it's too much of a tall order," he said wearily, "Your police were very polite, but I could see they thought it was asking for the moon for all I know, the blackguard I'm searching for may be the man who waits on me in a restaurant, the stranger who sits next to me in the theater, or the fellow who walks past me in the street. I can't blame you if you laugh at me for bringing to you such a fatuous request." Campion remained staring at the pad in front of him. The ominous phrase danced before his eyes: "It is written in the ink." Suddenly he looked up.

  "Where are you staying?"

  "The Cosmopolitan. I'll be there for a week." He hesitated, then burst out, "If you think you can help me, for God's sake tell me." Campion held out his hand.

  "My dear chap, how can I promise anything?" The other man would not be dismissed. "Something has occurred to you. You know something."

  "I don't know anything," Campion objected. "If I did, believe me, I'd have a great deal more to say. You must see I can't promise anything. But if it's any comfort to you, I can assure you that I shall spend the next day or so investigating a little mystery of my own which may conceivably have a bearing on your case. I can't say any more, truly, I can't say any more, can I?"

  It took time to get rid of him but when at last the big man went down the staircase to the street, Campion stood by the window and watched until his visitor's long car moved quietly out of the cul-de-sac.

  Some of the other man's passionate indignation had communicated itself to him and he, too, experienced a little of that helpless rage against the unknown. He went back to the desk and glanced once more at the pad.

  "'He must have seen it all the time'." Campion repeated the words softly. "I wonder ..." On the telephone Superintendent Oates was sympathetic but inclined to be heavily sarcastic.

  "Oh yes, we'll do all your donkey work for you," he said cheerfully. "That's what the country pays us for. Anything you want to know, just ask the police. They like spadework. Live on it, in fact. All right, all right," his tone became plaintive as Campion protested, "I've said we'd do it, haven't I? Yes, we'll get out all the information you want about the party you've mentioned. But if you'd like my opinion, I think you've gone off your head."

  Mr Campion thanked the Superintendent for his diagnosis and pointed out with dignity that he had not asked for it. He also presented his compliments to the Force and hoped it would get on with the job with more speed than was its custom. As ever, when they both put down their telephones they were on the best of all possible terms.

  Having put in motion the elementary machinery of an inquiry that he could but hop
e was not as forlorn as it appeared, Mr Albert Campion set to work on his own account. His first efforts were singularly unsuccessful. Lord Currier was out of town. Both he and his fiancee were guests in a house-party at Le Touquet. The date of their return was unknown.

  Campion took the telephone receiver in his hand intending to call Miss Jennifer Pelham, but he thought better of it. The matter was delicate in the extreme and he shrank from the possibility of the snub direct. Instead, in his quandary, he approached Lady Frinton.

  That voluble old lady was delighted to hear his voice and said so at considerable length, but when at last he got in his request she was suddenly and uncharacteristically silent.

  "The Pelham child?" she said at last, her tone dubious, "Phillida's youngest? The one with the red hair? That girl?" Mr Campion was not to be distracted.

  "The youngest Miss Pelham," he insisted patiently, "I want an introduction."

  "Ye-es." Lady Frinton sounded hesitant. "You'd better come to see me," she said after a pause. "I hate telephones."

  At the appointed hour Mr Campion presented himself at Lady Frinton's door in Knightsbridge and braced himself for an interview which promised to be exhausting.

  When he was shown in to her Lady Frinton was sitting by the open window overlooking her small paved garden, and Campion saw immediately that she was prepared to be on her guard. His anxiety increased as she overwhelmed him with a flood of small talk which bid fair to be as inexhaustible as his patience, but after half an hour on the weather, the state of the country, her many religious beliefs and her ailing pets, he cornered her. His direct question pulled her up.

  "Oh yes, that Pelham girl," she said, blinking at him. "Well, my dear, you know I'm a great friend of her mother and you know I couldn't abuse a confidence. I shouldn't bother with the child if I were you. She's very young." Mr Campion leant back and folded his hands. He made a very personable figure lounging there, easily, in the needlework chair.