The Allingham Casebook Read online

  Mr Campion remained silent for some time and the Superintendent laughed.

  “He’s thinking of the wickedness and ingenuity of man,” he said. “It surprises me myself sometimes. You’d better go along to the County Police, my boy. They can’t do anything until the fellow actually pays over cash, of course, but either they or we will pick up Bream and Dorothy in the end. Well, well, we aim to please. Anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Yes,” said Campion slowly. “Yes, there is, rather. You’re obviously right, of course, but there is one point I don’t see at all. I’ll tell you some time. Thank you kindly for the lecture. Most instructive. See you when I get back.”

  “Oh, Campion—” Oates called him when he reached the door, and when he spoke he was not joking. “Look out for Bream. He’s nasty when he’s cornered. Got a dirty streak in him.”

  “My dear fellow” – Campion was grinning, – “there’s nothing I’m so careful of as my valuable skin.”

  Oates grunted. “I’m not so sure,” he said. “Still, never say I didn’t warn you. So long.”

  Mr Campion returned to his flat where he was detained by an unexpected visitor. The following day brought unavoidable delays also, so that it was not until the afternoon of the third day of his return that he turned the nose of his big four-litre Lagonda into the overgrown drive of Swallows Hall.

  The long, low, half-timbered house, which was so prettily rose-entwined in summer, had an untidy and dilapidated aspect in mid-January. The miniature park was desolate, the iron railings flattened in many places and the grass long and yellow through lack of grazing.

  As he came slowly up the moss-grown way he fancied he saw a curtain drop back into place across one of the lower windows. His ring, too, was answered with suspicious promptness and he found himself looking down at Dorothy Dawson herself as soon as the door opened.

  She had dressed the part, he noticed. Her country tweeds were good but shabby and her make-up was restrained almost to the point of absence. She looked up into his face and he saw her eyes flicker.

  It was evident that he was not the person she had expected but there was no way of telling if she had recognised him. Her expression remained polite and questioning.

  “Mr Sacret?” he inquired.

  “Yes. Will you come in here? I’ll tell my husband.”

  Her voice was very soft, and she led him swiftly into Margaret’s shabby drawing room. Mr Campion found himself a little surprised. Although she had shown no sign of actual haste the whole incident had passed with most unusual speed, and it occurred to him that he had never before entered any house with such little delay. He glanced at his watch. It was a minute to three.

  He heard the quick step on the stones of the hall outside a second before the door swung open with a subdued rattle of portière rings and Tubby Bream came hurrying into the room.

  His round white face shone smug and benevolent above the neatest of dark suits, and his grey hair, which was longer than is customary, was sleeked down on either side of a centre parting which added considerably to the general lay-reader effect.

  In the doorway he paused with theatrical astonishment.

  “Why, if it isn’t Mr Campion,” he said. “Inquisitive, friendly Mr Campion. My dear wife said she thought it was you, but she couldn’t be sure. Well, well, what a pity you should choose just this moment for a call.”

  He had a thick, not unmelodious voice with a crack in it, and all the time he was speaking, his small bright eyes shot little darting glances about the room, now out of the window, now at his visitor’s face. He was a shorter man than Campion, but his shoulders were powerful and his neck square.

  “It’s a pity,” he repeated. “Such a very inconvenient time. Let me see now, you’re not actually connected with the police, are you, Mr Campion? Just a dilettante, if I may use the word?”

  Mr Campion shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m an old friend of Mrs Buntingworth’s,” he began. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  “Oh dear!” Bream’s small round eyes widened. “Oh dear, isn’t that interesting? Have you known her long, Mr Campion?”

  “Since I was a child.”

  “Thirty years or more?” Bream was rubbing his fat hands together. “How unfortunate. Really it couldn’t be more unfortunate. You’re so untrustworthy and there’s such a little time. In fact,” – he tugged at the chain leading to his fob pocket – “there really isn’t any time at all. A minute to the hour, I see. Put up your hands, Mr Campion.”

  It was a new trick and one that added considerably, Mr Campion felt, to his education. The wicked little snub-nosed Colt shot into the pudgy white hand with the speed and smoothness of a conjuring trick while the chain dangled harmlessly.

  “You’re making a great mistake, Bream,” he began but the other interrupted him.

  “Put up your hands. It’s a question of time. Put up your hands.”

  There was nothing for it. Mr Campion raised his arms.

  “Turn round, please.” The liquid voice with the unexpected harshness in it was complacent. “I’m afraid I can’t keep you in the drawing room. We’re expecting an important visitor, you see. He’s due at three o’clock. Dorothy, my dear —”

  Mr Campion did not hear Dorothy Dawson come into the room, but with the nose of the Colt pressing dangerously into a spot between his shoulder-blades, he was forced to suffer her to bind his wrists behind him. The strands of soft cord cut viciously into his flesh and he knew at once that it was not the first time she had tied up a captive. He ventured to congratulate her.

  “No talking, if you please.” Bream was breathing on his neck and the revolver muzzle pressed a little harder. “This way. The cupboard where the baskets are, Dorothy. Such a damp little hole, I’m afraid, Mr Campion, but you weren’t invited, you know. Walk quickly, please.”

  Campion suffered himself to be driven into the disused butler’s pantry across the hall, where Margaret kept her gardening baskets. It was damp and smelt of mice.

  The moment his foot touched the brick floor the man behind him sprang. The ferocity of the attack was wholly unwarranted and, unable to defend himself, Campion went down like a log in the darkness. He kicked out, only to receive a blow above the ear with the butt end of the gun, which knocked him senseless.

  When he came to himself a few minutes later his ankles were tied with the same paralysing tightness and there was a wad of paper in his mouth, kept in place by a strangling handkerchief.

  “Tubby, he’s here.”

  The woman’s whisper reached the young man through the open doorway into the hall and he heard Bream’s voice replying.

  “Let him in then, my dear. I’ll straighten myself. What an inconvenient visit from the silly, silly fellow.”

  The pantry door closed, the key turned softly in the lock and Campion heard the pattering of feet trotting towards the back of the house. He lay still. The effects of the blow he had received had by no means worn off and he dared not make an attempt to try the full strength of his bonds until he was sure he had all his wits about him.

  Meanwhile there was plenty to interest him. Far off down the hall he heard the front door open. He listened intently but had no need to strain his ears. The newcomer had a voice which entirely defeated its owner’s obvious efforts to soften it. His military, not to say parade-ground tones, echoed round the old house, setting the glasses ringing.

  “Mrs Sacret? Got my letter? Very obligin’ of you. Just home, don’t you know. Naturally anxious to see the old place again. Just the same, just the same. Not a stone altered, thank God.”

  At this point the stranger evidently blew his nose and, in spite of the acute discomfort which he suffered, Mr Campion’s eyes widened, and he pricked up his ears. There is a type of Englishman which cannot be copied. Caricatured, they make an unconvincing spectacle. Mr Campion wished he could see Mr Digby Sellers’s dupe, for he sounded genuine, and that brought up the one point which had puzzled him ev
er since he had visited the Superintendent, the same point which had brought him down to Swallows Hall and head first into his present predicament.

  Meanwhile, a conducted tour of the house was evidently taking place. The visitor’s stentorian tones, punctuated by soft murmurs from the woman and Bream’s less frequent unctuous rumbles, sounded at intervals from all over the house. Always, the newcomer’s theme was the same.

  “Hasn’t changed; hasn’t changed. Used to play in here, don’t you know. Happy days… youth… childhood. Makin’ a fool of myself, I’m afraid. But affectin’, you know, very affectin’.”

  In the basket cupboard Mr Campion wrestled with his bonds. His hands and feet were numb, and the gag was choking him. The experience was both painful and infuriating. Even his attempts to make a noise were frustrated, for not only was it impossible for him to move but the effects of the blow, coupled with the lack of air, fast made him faint.

  Meanwhile the party seemed to have gone into the garden. The visitor’s voice, muffled but still quite audible, percolated through the lath and plaster walls. Campion caught a few disjointed phrases.

  “Stayin’ at Ipswich a couple of days… have to think it over, don’t you know… lot of money… need repairin’. Who had the place before you, do you know? What? God bless my soul!”

  There followed a long period of silence, broken only, for Mr Campion, by exquisitely distasteful scratchings in the panelling near his left ear. He cursed himself mildly and closed his eyes.

  His next conscious moment came nearly an hour later when the door was thrust cautiously open and he saw the silhouette of a square head and shoulders against the faint light of the hall.

  “I think we might now consider our other visitor, Dorothy my dear.” Bream’s voice was ingratiating and somehow anticipatory. “Well, Mr Campion, comfortable, I hope?”

  He came soft-footed into the room, managing to tread on the edge of Campion’s upper arm, driving his heel hard into the flesh. The young man forced himself to remain inert and was rewarded.

  “Dorothy” – Bream’s voice was sharp” – come here. Bring a light.”

  “Oh, what’s happened? What’s happened? You haven’t killed him?”

  “That would be awkward, my child, wouldn’t it? He’s such an old friend of the police.”

  There was a laugh in the fat voice, but it was not altogether one of amusement.

  “Oh, don’t —” The woman sounded genuinely frightened. “You’re so crazily cruel. There was no need to hit him as you did. If you’ve killed him —”

  “Be quiet, my dear. Help me to get him out of here. He’s alive all right.”

  Together they dragged the young man out into the hall and Bream bent down and tore the gag out of his mouth. The woman brought a glass of water. Mr Campion drank and thanked her feebly.

  At the sound of his voice, Bream chuckled.

  “That’s better, that’s better,” he said, smoothing his large moist hands down the sides of his coat. “It’s all most unfortunate. I don’t like to have to inconvenience anyone like this, especially a guest. But it’s entirely your own fault, you know, for choosing to come at such a very awkward moment. Believe me, my young friend, if you had called at any other time, any other time at all, it would have been very different. As it is, you’ve put me in a very uncomfortable position. I really don’t see what to do with you. If you were only more dependable.”

  He broke off with a sigh of regret and stood looking down at his victim, a sad smile on his round white face.

  “How are the wrists?” he inquired presently. “Sore? I feared so. Dear, dear, this is very awkward. You may have to remain like that for some time. I don’t see what else I can do, do you, Dorothy, my dear? Since he’s precipitated himself into my – ah – my business affairs, I fear he may have to stay here until the project goes through. You see, Mr Campion, if I let you go you may so easily spoil all my beautiful work.”

  Mr Campion stirred painfully.

  “I hope your visitor liked his old home,” he said bitterly.

  “Oh, he did.” The round eyes became shrewd and twinkling. “You overheard him, did you? He had a rather loud voice, hadn’t he? I was afraid you might. Ah well, that practically clinches the matter, doesn’t it? You must certainly spend a day or two with us. I see no other way out.”

  He was silent for a moment or so, lost in contemplation of the younger man’s discomfort.

  “Yes, he liked it very much indeed,” he went on at last, still in the bantering affected tone he had adopted throughout their entire interview. “I think I can safely say that he is in love with it. Such a charming man, Mr Campion. You’d have been touched if you’d seen his eyes light up at each familiar scene. I was quite affected. I think we shall have an offer from him in the morning. Oh yes, I do indeed. When I told him, I was thinking of cutting down the trees and refacing the house he seemed quite disturbed.”

  Mr Campion opened his eyes.

  “He didn’t attempt to borrow a tenner, I suppose?” he murmured.

  Bream raised his eyebrows.

  “No,” he said. “No, he did not. He was hardly the type. What a pity you couldn’t meet.”

  Mr Campion began to laugh. The exertion hurt him considerably, but he was genuinely amused.

  “Bream,” he said faintly, “do you see any reason why I should give you a hand out of your filthy troubles? You always were pig-headed and now, damn it, you deserve what’s coming to you.”

  There was a long silence after he had spoken, and he remained very still, his eyes closed. The other man pulled up a chair and sat down on it. He was not exactly shaken but the habitual crook has a suspicious mind.

  “Mr Campion,” he began quietly, “why exactly did you come down here?”

  “On an errand of mercy.” Mr Campion’s voice was faint but resentful. “Like most acts of pure charity, it was misunderstood. You can go and hang yourself, Bream, before I help you now!”

  “Perhaps you’d care to explain a little more fully?” The soft voice was very gentle. “My wife is in the back of the house now. I mention this because women are squeamish, as you know, and you might think I might hesitate to persuade you to talk a little if she were present.”

  He began to beat a slow tattoo on Campion’s shinbone with the heel of his broad shoe.

  “Good God, what do you think I’m here for!” The righteous anger in Campion’s voice was convincing. “Do you think I would go scouring the country in an attempt to capture your scurvy little hide? That’s a job for the police. I came here in a perfectly friendly spirit. I happen to have a useful piece of information which would save you time and money, and because you happen to be in the house of a friend of mine, and after the showdown I thought you might work off some of your natural resentment on the house itself, I dropped in to give you a brotherly tip. Instead of listening to me, as any sane man would, you started this kind of monkey-trick. Use your head, Bream.”

  “But, Mr Campion, you gave me no option.” There was the beginning of doubt in the greasy voice and the man on the floor was quick to press his advantage.

  “Option be damned,” he said cheerfully. “You were so afraid that your bird would drop in and find me that you lost your nerve. If you’d only paused to consider the obvious it might have dawned on you that if I meant to be unfriendly, I had only to run round to the county police, who would have bided their time, waited until you’d done something they could pin on you, and walked in at the psychological moment to nab you in the decent and time-honoured manner.”

  “But, Mr Campion, consider…” Bream’s voice was unhappy. “Supposing you had dropped in here by chance…”

  Campion stirred. “Is this the kind of place anyone would drop into by chance?” he demanded. “Mrs Buntingworth is in the south of France. I left her there three days ago. When she gave me a description of your wife, I recognised it, and when I called in at the Yard the other morning they were kind enough to explain the game you were probably pla
ying. And so, because I knew something you didn’t, I came trotting down here in a positively brotherly spirit instead of going to the police. Now, believe me, I don’t feel brotherly and you can sit here and wait for Nemesis.”

  “Oh, Mr Campion.” Bream had lost his banter and his voice and manner were no longer carefully matched to his costume. He was still wary, but his eyes were anxious. “I’m beginning to be very interested.”

  “Very likely, but I’m in pain,” suggested his victim. “My wrists are raw and I’m feeling spiteful. If you have any sense at all, you’ll untie them. After all, you’ve got the gun; I haven’t.”

  The reasonableness of the request seemed to appeal to the crook. He cut the cords carefully and stepped back.

  “I think I’ll leave your ankles, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’m not so agile as I was, and I can’t trust you at all.”

  Mr Campion wriggled into a sitting position and rubbed his bruised wrists. His yellow hair was dishevelled, and his pale eyes were hard and angry.

  “Now, what do you think you are going to do?” he inquired. “It’s a pretty heavy sentence for assault, you know, and quite a set-out for murder.”

  Bream scowled. “You may be lying,” he suggested softly.

  “Oh, have a heart, man.” Campion sounded exasperated. “Is there any other reasonable explanation for my coming down here at all? Haven’t I told you the obvious truth? Haven’t I behaved like any other sane man in similar circumstances. You’re the fellow who’s lost his head and jumped into trouble feet first. However, I’ll do you one more courtesy just to prove how well I meant. I told you I had known Mrs Buntingworth all my life. What I haven’t mentioned is that I knew her father and mother, who lived in this house until they died, and it had to go up for sale. Mrs Buntingworth’s husband bought it, I believe. Now do you see what I’m driving at?”