Mystery Mile Read online

  There was an instant of complete stupefaction.

  The significance of this extraordinary incident dawned slowly. The men upon the platform to whom the thing had been so near stiffened with horror as the explanation occurred to them.

  Marlowe Lobbett was the first to move. He sprang on to the platform by his father’s side and stood with him looking down at the charred spot on the cabinet floor.

  It was at this moment that the pale young man with the spectacles, apparently grasping the situation for the first time, let out a howl of mingled grief and astonishment.

  ‘Oh! my poor Haig! What has happened to him? What has happened to him?’ He bent forward to peer down into the cabinet.

  ‘Look out, you fool!’ Judge Lobbett’s voice was unrecognizable as he caught the incautious young man by his collar and jerked him backwards. ‘Can’t you see!’ His voice rose high and uncontrolled. ‘That cabinet is live! Your pet has been electrocuted!’

  The words startled everyone.

  An excited murmur followed a momentary silence. Then a woman screamed.

  Concert officials and ship’s officers hurried on to the platform. The noise became greater, and a startled, bewildered crowd swept up to the platform end of the room.

  Judge Lobbett and his tall son were surrounded by an excited group of officials.

  Satsuma chattered wildly in his own tongue.

  The pale young man with the spectacles appeared to be on the verge of fainting with horror. Even the complacent Mr Barber was shaken out of his habitual affability. His heavy jaws sagged, his greasy eyes grew blank with astonishment.

  All the time the cabinet remained glowing with a now evil radiance, bizarre and horrible, a toy that had become a thing of terror.

  The arrival of the chief engineer roused the general stupor. He was a lank Belfast Irishman, yellow-haired, lantern-jawed, and deaf as a post. He gave his orders in the hollow bellow of a deaf man and soon reduced the affair to almost a commonplace.

  ‘McPherson, just clear the lounge, will you? I don’t want anyone to remain but those intimately concerned. There’s been a small accident here in the temporary fittings,’ he explained soothingly to the bewildered crowd which was being gently but firmly persuaded out of the lounge by an energetic young Scotsman and his assistants.

  ‘There’s something very wrong with the insulation of your cupboard,’ he went on, addressing the Japanese severely. ‘It’s evidently a very dangerous thing. Have you not had trouble with it before?’

  Satsuma protested violently, but his birdlike twittering English would have been unintelligible to the engineer even had he been able to hear it.

  Meanwhile a small army of mechanics was at work. The chief entered into an incomprehensible technical discussion with them, and their growing astonishment and consternation told more plainly than anything else could have done the terrible tragedy that had only just been averted by the timely sacrifice of the unfortunate Haig.

  It was impossible not to be sorry for the Japanese. There could be no doubt of the sincerity of his wretchedness. He hovered round the electricians, half terrified of the consequences of what had happened and half fearful for the safety of his precious apparatus.

  Marlowe Lobbett, whose patience had been slowly ebbing, stepped up to the chief and shouted in his ear.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard,’ he began, ‘but back in New York there have been several unsuccessful attempts upon my father’s life. This affair looks very like another. I should be very glad if you could make certain where the responsibility lies.’

  The chief turned upon him.

  ‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘there’s no question of responsibility. The whole thing’s an extraordinary coincidence. You see that cable on the floor there?’ He pointed to the exposed part of a cable resting upon the parquet floor of the platform. ‘If, in shifting the piano, the cabinet hadn’t been moved a little so that the one place where the insulation had worn off the cabinet made a connection with it, the affair could never have happened. At the same time, if it hadn’t been for the second purely accidental short, the other contact could not have been made.’ He indicated a dark stain on the polished grille of the cabinet. ‘But,’ he went on, fixing the young American with a vivid blue eye, ‘you’re not suggesting that someone fixed the whole thing up on the very slender chance of getting your father in there, are you?’ The chief was considerably more puzzled than he dared to admit. But since no harm had been done he was not anxious to go into the matter too thoroughly for the ship’s sake.

  Old Judge Lobbett laid his hand on his son’s arm.

  ‘This isn’t quite the time to discuss this, my boy,’ he said. ‘Someone knew I couldn’t resist a conjuror. But I don’t think we’ll discuss it here.’

  He glanced round as he spoke, and the chief, following the direction of his eyes, suddenly caught sight of the pale young man with the horn-rimmed spectacles who was still standing foolishly by the dismantled cabinet. The officer frowned.

  ‘I thought I gave orders for the lounge to be cleared,’ he said. ‘May I ask, sir, what you’ve got to do with this affair?’

  The young man started and coloured uncomfortably.

  ‘Well, it was my mouse,’ he said.

  It was some time before the chief could be made to understand what he was saying, but when at last he did he was hardly sympathetic.

  ‘All the same, I think we can manage without you,’ he said bluntly.

  The dismissal was unmistakable, and the pale young man smiled nervously and apologized with a certain amount of confusion. Then he crept off the platform like his own mouse, and had almost reached the door before young Marlowe Lobbett overtook him.

  The young American had left his father and sister on the platform and came up eagerly. His dark-skinned face and piercing eyes gave him almost a fierce expression, and the pale young man in the spectacles had an impression of someone abounding in energy that was not solely physical.

  ‘I’d like to thank you,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And,’ he added bluntly, ‘I’d like to talk to you. I’m greatly indebted to you, but I don’t see quite where you come in on this. What’s your game? Who are you?’

  The pale young man looked, if possible, even more foolish than before.

  ‘My game?’ he said. ‘I don’t quite know what you mean. I toss a few cabers, and tiddle a wink occasionally, and I’m a very fair hand at shove-halfpenny.’

  He paused.

  Marlowe Lobbett was looking at him steadily.

  ‘This is more serious for me than it is for you,’ he said slowly.

  The pale young man grew suddenly very red and uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ve got a card here somewhere.’ He took a handful of miscellaneous odds and ends out of his coat pocket, and selecting a visiting card handed it gravely to Marlowe.

  ‘My trade card,’ he said, ‘if there’s anything I can do for you, ring me up. I don’t suppose we shall meet again on board. We bus conductors feel dreadfully out of place here.’

  Then, grinning fatuously, he bowed and disappeared through the doorway out of sight, leaving the other staring after him.

  The whole conversation had taken less than ten seconds.

  Undecided whether the stranger was genuine or not, young Lobbett glanced at the card in his hand. It was immaculate and beautifully engraved:

  * * *

  MR ALBERT CAMPION

  Coups neatly executed

  Nothing sordid, vulgar or plebeian

  Deserving cases preferred

  Police no object

  PUFFINS CLUB

  THE JUNIOR GREYS

  * * *

  On the back a phone number had been scribbled:

  Regent 01300

  2 The Simister Legend

  AFTER HALF AN hour’s experience of the vagaries of the London telephone service Marlow Lobbett could hear the telephone bell ringing in some far-off room in the great city which seemed to be huddling round his hotel
as if it were trying to squeeze the life out of it.

  At last he heard the welcome click at the far end of the wire and a thick and totally unexpected voice said huskily, ‘Aphrodite Glue Works speaking.’

  Marlowe Lobbett sighed. ‘I want Regent 01300,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the voice. ‘’Oo do you want?’

  The young man glanced at the card in front of him, and a wave of disappointment overwhelmed him. He had cherished the idea that he could rely upon the man who had come to his father’s rescue so successfully on board the Elephantine.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to speak to a Mr Albert Campion.’

  ‘Oh?’ The voice became confidential immediately. ‘Could I have yer name, please, sir?’

  Very puzzled, Marlowe Lobbett gave his name. The voice became more deferential than before. ‘Listen carefully, sir,’ it said in a rumbling whisper. ‘You want Bottle Street Police Station. You know where that is, don’t you? – off Piccadilly. It’s the side door on the left. Right up the stairs. You’ll see the name up when you come to it. No. No connection with the police station – just a flat on top. Pleased to see you right away. Goo’-bye, sir.’

  There was a second click and he was cut off.

  The girl seated on the edge of the table by the instrument looked at her brother eagerly. She was dark, but whereas he was tall and heavily built, with the shoulders of a prize-fighter, she was petite, finely and slenderly fashioned.

  ‘Did you get him?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I’m scared, Marlowe. More scared than I was at home.’

  The boy put his arm round her. ‘It’s going to be all right, kid,’ he said. ‘The old man’s obstinacy doesn’t make it any easier for us to look after him. I was rather hopeful about this Campion fellow, but now I don’t know what to think. I’ll see if I can find him, anyhow.’

  The girl clung to him. ‘Be careful. You don’t know anyone here. It might be a trap to get you.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘I fancy not,’ he said.

  She was still not reassured. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Marlowe shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘It may be a wild-goose chase. Stay here and look after Father. Don’t let him go out till I come back.’

  Isopel Lobbett nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But hurry.’

  The taxi route from the Strand to Piccadilly is not a long one, and Marlowe found himself outside the police station in the narrow cul-de-sac sooner than he had anticipated. The ‘door on the left’, he decided, must be the yellow portal which stood open showing a flight of wooden stairs, scrubbed white, leading up into darkness. After the first flight of steps he came upon a carpet, at the third there were pictures on the wall, and he began to have the uncomfortable impression that he had stumbled into some private house, when he suddenly came to a stop before an attractively carved oak door upon which there was a small brass plate, neatly engraved with the simple lettering:

  MR ALBERT CAMPION, MERCHANT GOODS DEPT

  When he saw it he realized with a shock how forlorn he had expected his errand to be. He tapped upon the door with more vigour than he had intended.

  It was opened immediately by the young man in the horn-rimmed spectacles himself. He was attired in what appeared to be a bathrobe, a stupendous affair of multi-coloured Turkish towelling.

  ‘Hallo!’ he said. ‘Seeing London? I come next in importance after the Tower, I always think. Come in.’ He dragged his visitor into a room across the tiny passage and thrust him into a deep comfortable armchair by the fire. As he mixed him a drink he rambled on inconsequentially without allowing the other to get a word in.

  ‘I have to live over a police station because of my friends. It’s a great protection against my more doubtful acquaintances.’

  In spite of his agitation and the importance of his errand, Marlowe could not help noticing the extraordinary character of the room in which he sat. It was tastefully, even luxuriously, furnished. There were one or two delightful old pieces, a Rembrandt etching over the bureau, a Steinlen cat, a couple of original cartoons, and a lovely little Girtin.

  But amongst these were scattered a most remarkable collection of trophies. One little group over the mantelpiece comprised two jemmies, crossed, surmounted by a pair of handcuffs, with a convict’s cap over the top. Lying upon a side table, apparently used as a paper knife, was a beautiful Italian dagger, the blade of which was of a curious greenish-blue shade, and the hilt encrusted with old and uncut gems.

  Campion picked it up. ‘That’s the Black Dudley dagger,’ he said. ‘An old boy I met was stuck in the back with that, and everyone thought I’d done the sticking. Not such fun. I suppose you’ve seen most of the sights of London by now,’ he went on. ‘There’s my Great-aunt Emily. I’ve often thought of running a good cheap char-à-bancs tour round her.’

  Marlowe Lobbett did not smile. ‘You’ll forgive me,’ he said, ‘but can’t we drop this fooling? I’ve come to you as a last chance, Mr Campion.’

  The boy’s gravity was sobering, but his irrepressible host, after a momentary expression of contrition had passed over his face, began once more. ‘Rather – anything I can do for you,’ he said affably. ‘I undertake almost anything these days. But nothing sordid. I will not sell that tinted photograph of myself as Lord Fauntleroy. No. Not all your gold shall tempt me. I am leaving that to the Nation. Patriotism, and all that sort of rot,’ he chattered on, proffering a particularly dangerous-looking cocktail. ‘All my own work. It contains almost everything except tea. Now, young sir, what can I do for you?’

  Marlowe accepted the drink. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘do you always talk like this?’

  Mr Campion looked abashed. ‘Almost always,’ he said. ‘People get used to it in time. I can’t help it, it’s a sort of affliction, like stammering or a hammer toe. My friends pretend they don’t notice it. What did the police say to you this morning?’

  The last question was put so abruptly that Marlowe Lobbett had not time to conceal his surprise. ‘What do you know about it?’ he demanded. ‘How do you know that I visited your police headquarters this morning?’

  Mr Campion advanced with great solemnity and gingerly removed a tiny piece of fluff from his visitor’s overcoat with his thumb and forefinger. ‘A police hair, my dear Watson,’ he said. ‘I noticed it as soon as you came in. Since then my brain has been working. I suppose they funked it?’ he went on with sudden directness.

  Marlowe glanced up. ‘They wouldn’t guarantee his safety,’ he said.

  Mr Campion shook his head. ‘I don’t altogether blame them,’ he said soberly. ‘Your own police in New York weren’t handing out any insurance certificates, were they?’

  ‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘That is the main reason why I got the old boy over here. Our Big Noise over there told me that in his opinion they were playing cat-and-mouse with father and that they’d get him just whenever they pleased. You see,’ he burst out impatiently, ‘it’s mostly the old boy’s fault. He won’t stand for any reasonable restraint. He won’t let the police look after him in their way. You see, he’s never been afraid of –’ He hesitated, and added the word ‘them’ with a peculiar intonation. ‘And he’s not going to begin now. He’s not crazy. He just feels that way about it. You see what I’m up against.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Mr Campion thoughtfully. ‘How come, boy? How come?’

  Marlowe stared at him in astonishment. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand you at all, Mr Campion. When you saved my father on the Elephantine surely you had some idea of what was up?’

  ‘Well, naturally,’ said the owner of the flat airily, ‘but not very much. I met an old burgling friend of mine on board and he pointed out a fellow graduate of his, as it were, who had suddenly got very pally with old Hanky Panky the Magician. Like all professional men, we took an intelligent interest in the fellow’s technique, and, well, I just borrowed friend Haig in case of emergencies
. Do you know,’ he rattled on, ‘I believe that mouse was fond of me? I am glad it was a sudden death. By the way,’ he continued, ‘may I ask, was it because of my stupendous platform appearance that you came to me today?’

  Marlowe Lobbett hesitated. ‘Not altogether,’ he admitted. ‘In fact, when I was talking to Chief Inspector Deadwood at Scotland Yard this morning and I found that they couldn’t promise to protect the old boy without a regular police guard, which father would never stand, I appealed to him as a man to tell me of someone to whom I could go.’

  Mr Campion chuckled. ‘Good for him,’ he said. ‘Behold Albert Campion, C.I.D. – i.e. Cell in Dartmoor,’ he explained regretfully. ‘But it hasn’t come to that yet. You know of course who “they” are?’ he said suddenly.

  Marlowe Lobbett was becoming used to these lightning changes of mood. He nodded, his shrewd dark eyes fixed upon the spectacles which hid Mr Campion’s seriousness from him. ‘Simister.’ He spoke the word so softly that it sounded like a whisper. Mr Campion was silent for some moments, and Marlowe Lobbett suddenly leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Mr Campion,’ he said, ‘can you tell me about this man Simister? What is he? A gangster? A master crook? Is he a single personality at all? In New York they say his records go back for over a hundred years, and that no such person exists. According to them a powerful gang is using the word as a sort of trade name. Tell me,’ he went on. ‘Does he exist?’

  A laugh escaped Mr Campion. ‘My dear man,’ he said, ‘somewhere on this earth there is a man called Simister. He may be a devil – a bogle – anything you like, but he’s as real a power of evil as dope is. I’m not saying this to chill your youthful ardour,’ he went on, ‘but it’s most dangerous to underrate an enemy. This is all I know about him. I’ve talked to crooks and I’ve talked to policemen – I’ve even talked to members of his own gang – but I’ve never met anyone yet who has set eyes on him. Apparently he’s a voice on the telephone, a shadow on the road, the gloved hand that turns out the light in the crook play; but with one big difference – he’s never caught. There are thousands of amazing yarns told about him, and in not one of them does a hint of his face ever appear. They say no one ever escapes him.’