Sweet Danger Page 3

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Guffy. ‘A natural harbour with natural fuel.’

  ‘That seems to be the general opinion,’ said Farquharson, and Campion cut in, his quiet, foolish voice sounding odd in conjunction with the importance of his discourse:

  ‘Only no one wants anyone else to have a natural harbour in the Adriatic like that,’ he said. ‘There’ll probably be a lot of international litigation about it. Litigation is a tetchy business at the best of times, but just now it might be rather awkward if there was much argument or fuss. The European situation being what it is.’

  ‘I see,’ said Guffy slowly. ‘I suppose there’s no doubt at all that the place actually belonged to the Earls of Pontisbright?’

  ‘Oh, none at all. They had it by right of conquest first, and then, to be on the safe side, they bought it from Metternich. They hold, or at least they once held, the deeds, the charter, the regalia – the receipts, in fact – and if the family hadn’t disappeared in the Crimea things would be simple. As it is, however, the family was in low water at the time of its disappearance, and there seems to have been a general mix up at the finish, and, frankly, everything belonging to Averna has been lost. That’s where we come in. That’s what we’re doing. We’re on a sort of fantastic treasure hunt with rather a lot at stake. The Powers-That-Be got wind of the affair, first through Eager-Wright and then from their own expert, and, deciding that the matter was one of those complicated slightly underhand pieces of business which go so well with my personality, they did me the honour of calling me in, giving me a free hand, and there you are. Rather pretty, isn’t it?’

  Guffy Randall sat silent for some minutes reflecting upon what he had heard. His slow methodical mind went over the story inch by inch, and finally he looked up, a suggestion of alarm in his eyes.

  ‘Rather a tall order, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I mean, these proofs may be anywhere.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Eager-Wright from his corner. ‘However, we’ve been more hopeful since someone took the trouble to shoot at us.’

  Campion nodded. ‘The good folk in authority have an idea based upon certain enquiries that part of these papers, documents, crowns, and whatnot may be about to fall into the hands of some unscrupulous private agent, who will hold them until the right moment to make a deal. As the feeling in London is that the moment for safety is almost past, they are anxious to make him come out into the open if he really does exist. Our somewhat spectacular descent into Averna and our leisurely return through Europe is a self-advertising stunt. We had intended to wait until we received an offer to purchase and then to freeze on to the vendor with the tenacity of bull-pups. I understand the intention at present is even to revive the Pontisbright title if necessary. But even so, our employers won’t cut much ice at the Court of The Hague if they can’t produce the documents. So far no one’s tried to sell us anything. But someone tried to kill us, and we’ve been followed most thoroughly ever since we left the kingdom; so it looks as if our good work has not been completely wasted. It’s only the delay that is alarming, because, as you can gather, the whole thing is rather serious. As far as I can see, we might have all Europe flaring up if a certain Power thought it worth while to fight for Averna. It is just important enough to make a good excuse.’

  ‘I see. Did you catch a glimpse of the man who fired at you?’

  ‘Just a glimpse,’ said Farquharson. ‘There were two of them: one, a most extraordinary-looking fellow with a widow’s peak that almost touched the bridge of his nose, had been following us for some time, and just as we were getting into the train at Brindisi he took a pot shot at us. Unfortunately we were surrounded by a crowd immediately, and although we made a sprint after the fellows, we missed them. We haven’t seen widow’s peak since, but his pal, a little rat-faced person with a perpetual sniff, is right here in this hotel on the same floor.’

  ‘Really?’ said Guffy with interest. ‘Is that the man who had his rooms ransacked?’

  This innocent enquiry had an instantaneous effect upon his audience. Eager-Wright sprang to his feet and Mr Campion paused in his stride to regard the speaker sharply.

  ‘Fleurey told me,’ said Guffy hastily. ‘That’s why he was trying to find out who you were. Apparently some fellow or other on this floor complained that your man, W. Smith, had gone rummaging among his things. Naturally Fleurey was most anxious not to make any complaint until he was certain you were not royalty incognito. Now I come to think of it, I saw a man sneaking out of a window on this floor when I was driving up just before lunch. He was a little rat-faced person in a brown suit.’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Eager-Wright. ‘Lugg must have frightened him.’

  Mr Campion, who had become suddenly grave, turned to Eager-Wright.

  ‘I say, would you mind going out and finding Lugg?’ he said. ‘It’s the same old Lugg, Guffy; he’s only masquerading under the name of Smith, like the rest of us. This wants looking into. I wonder what the cretin’s done now.’

  Five minutes later Eager-Wright returned, his eyes alight with curiosity, and in his wake, lumbering, breathless but indignant, came Mr Campion’s personal servant and general factotum, Magersfontein Lugg.

  He was an immense and gloomy individual at the best of times. The lower part of his vast white face was almost hidden by a drooping black moustache, but he had the quick keen eyes of a cockney in spite of the lugubrious expression which he almost always wore. The fact that he had been a burglar before, as he remarked himself, he had lost his figger, tended to make him a very valuable ally to the master to whom he was devoted. Mr Lugg’s knowledge of the underworld was unrivalled.

  At the moment the sleek black clothes of the typical gentleman’s gentleman sat oddly upon his ungainly form, more especially as he wore no trace of the subservience which almost invariably accompanies them. He eyed his master truculently.

  ‘Can’t even ’ave a little sleep in the afternoon now, can’t I?’ he said. ‘It’s “Yes, me lord; no, me lord” the whole time. I get sick of it.’

  Campion waved his remarks aside impatiently. ‘Sniffy Edwards has left this hotel by a window. Before he left he complained to the mangement that his rooms had been ransacked by a person who resembled you very closely.’

  Mr Lugg looked completely unabashed. ‘Oh, ’e saw me, did ’e?’ he said. ‘I wondered if ’e had.’

  ‘Look here, Lugg, this is disgraceful. You’d better pack your things and go straight back to Bottle Street.’ Mr Campion, it seemed, spoke more in sorrow than in anger.

  ‘Ho, that’s it?’ said his aide angrily. ‘It’s manners now, is it? I don’t like to talk to you like this in front of yer friends, but I didn’t know we’d got to put on airs and graces in private. King you may be, but not to me. Very well, I’ll go. But you’ll be sorry. When I went through Sniffy’s rooms I didn’t search ’is bags, as you might think. I simply took ’is morning mail. Anybody might ’ave done that. ’E was in ’is bath and I nipped in quick as you please and read the letters the moment after ’e’d done so ’isself. And what’s more, I found something. I found the key of the ’ole situation. I was going to show it to you as soon as I got you alone. But am I going to now? Not on yer life! I’m going back to London.’

  ‘Cast aside like a worn-out glove, I suppose,’ said Mr Campion sarcastically. ‘The plaything of fate again. Come across with it, Lugg, if it’s interesting.’

  Mr Lugg appeared mollified but affected not to have heard the interruption.

  ‘So Sniffy went, did ’e?’ he said. ‘I thought ’e would. I left a note on ’is dressing-table sayin’ I’d show ’im what it was like to take a good look at the inside of ’is own ’ead if I laid ears to ’is dirty little snuffle again. I left it anonymous, you know, but if ’e saw me that accounts for him leaving sudden.’

  ‘What about this key to the whole situation?’ enquired Campion again.

  With a gesture of resignation Mr Lugg removed his coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and drew from a sma
ll pocket in the lining a crumpled half sheet of paper.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘You fight in your gentlemanly way. Say “Excuse me” and “I wonder if I could trouble you.” But if you want a thing done, go and do it in the natural dirty way that the Lord meant. And if you don’t like to read another bloke’s letters, I’ll put it back.’

  ‘Lugg, there’s something positively horrible about you,’ said Mr Campion with distaste as he picked up the paper.

  CHAPTER III

  The Man Higher Up

  THE FRAGMENT OF paper which Mr Campion held and at which the others glanced over his shoulder was thumbed and dirty, but the message was legible enough.

  ‘Gwen’s, London. Dear S., – This is to give you the office. Have heard from P. that the old man is angry. We have both been on wrong track, as I thought. I am off to Fly by Night to-night. The old man’s heard of something that may give us the lead in on the doings. There is supposed to be something carved on one of the trees in the garden which will show us the light. Seems like Sweet Fanny Adams to me. Join me careful. You can leave that bunch, they know less than us. – Yours, D.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Mr Lugg. ‘That’s what I call evidence. It gives it to yer in one.’

  ‘I’m hanged if I can see it,’ said Guffy, who was still frowning over the document. ‘Can you make head or tail of this, Campion?’

  ‘Well, yes, in a way. It’s extremely interesting.’ The pale young man in the horn-rimmed spectacles continued to regard the missive thoughtfully. ‘You see, Sniffy’s correspondent is inclined to stick to his own vernacular. Translated, I imagine it goes something like this, doesn’t it, Lugg? “Dear Sniffy, – This is to warn you. Have heard from P. that the man who employs us is angry. We have been on the wrong scent, as I thought. I am off to Pontisbright to-night. Our employer has heard of something which may give us a clue to the whereabouts of the proofs. There is alleged to be something carved on one of the trees in the garden” – of the old Pontisbright house, I suppose – “which may give us that clue. I am not very sanguine about this. Join me at Pontisbright, but take care. You can leave Mr Campion and his friends. They know less than we do. – Yours, Doyle.”’

  ‘How d’you make out “Pontisbright”?’ said Farquharson.

  ‘Rhyming slang. It’s still used a good deal, especially for proper names. That’s only a guess, I know, but I think we’re fairly safe in assuming that it’s what the man means.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Mr Lugg’s sepulchral voice from the background.

  ‘How do you know “D” stands for Doyle?’ continued Guffy obstinately.

  ‘Well, Peaky Doyle has been with Sniffy Edwards on this job and he’s the most likely person to write to his friend on the subject. Also, he spends a lot of his time at Gwen’s, a rather shady lodging-house in the Waterloo Road.’

  ‘Peaky Doyle is the man we’ve called “widow’s peak” all along, the man who fired at us at Brindisi, I suppose?’ said Eager-Wright. ‘I say, Campion, this is important, isn’t it? What do you actually make of it?’

  Mr Campion considered. His pale face was vacant as ever, but his eyes were thoughtful.

  ‘It’s an interesting note altogether,’ he said at last. ‘I see no reason at all to suppose that it isn’t genuine, and in that case it puts us on a new scent altogether. In the first place, if Peaky Doyle is going to Pontisbright, I suppose we’d better go too. That’s the name of the Suffolk village, by the way, where the Pontisbright mansion originally stood. Well, well, well; perhaps the fun is going to begin at last.’

  He was silent again for a moment and stood looking down at the paper.

  ‘I know what you’re thinkin’,’ said Mr Lugg suddenly. ‘You’re thinkin’ just what I’ve bin thinkin’ all along, and it’s this: ’Oo exactly is Peaky Doyle’s old man?’

  Mr Campion glanced at his aide, and for a moment they regarded each other solemnly.

  ‘Well, why not?’ said Mr Lugg. ‘It might be. And if so, either you give up the ’ole idea or I ‘and in my resignation.’

  ‘Nerves troubling you again?’ enquired his employer mildly.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Lugg stoutly. ‘I know what’s good for me, though. I’ve never worked a miracle yet and I don’t want t’ave to begin now.’

  Mr Campion seemed to realize that this cryptic conversation must be very tantalizing to his friends, and he turned to them.

  ‘Peaky Doyle once worked for a very extraordinary person early on in his unbeautiful career,’ he explained, ‘and the thought has occurred to both Lugg and me that he might be back at his old job. I suppose you people have heard of Brett Savanake?’

  ‘The financier?’ enquired Farquharson, while Eager-Wright and Guffy looked blank.

  Campion nodded. ‘He’s an extraordinary man, one of those business geniuses who turn up now and again. He’s chairman of a dozen companies of international importance, and how he got there is one of those mysteries that people have given up trying to explain. Early on in his career there were some very queer stories floating about, and just after the Winterton Textile Trust smash he used to go about with a bodyguard of thugs. Peaky Doyle featured rather prominently in that outfit. Since then Savanake’s just gone on from strength to strength. He’s never photographed, never interviewed, but keeps out of the limelight as much as possible.’

  ‘But,’ said Farquharson, aghast, ‘would this be big enough for him? Think of the risk!’

  Mr Campion grinned. ‘I don’t think the risk would worry him,’ he said. ‘But whether the thing’s big enough is another matter altogether. If we’re up against him we’re up against something pretty exciting. Still, I don’t see any way of finding that out immediately. If it arises, it arises. What is important is this yarn about a clue carved on a tree trunk. We can’t afford to ignore a hint like that, can we? Alas, I see the day of my pomp departing. I must get back to work.’

  ‘Look here,’ said Guffy, ‘what exactly are we looking for? This may seem rather a trite question to you, but it’s been worrying me.’

  Campion apologized. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with genuine contrition. ‘I ought to have explained this before. There’s three things without which the Powers-That-Be don’t consider they could possibly get a favourable decision at the Court of The Hague. The first – it’s rather like a fairy story, isn’t it? – is the crown which was made for Giles Pontisbright in the reign of Henry the Fourth. He had it made by Italian workmen, and the only description of it we can get is a rather fanciful affair in a manuscript in the British Museum. I’ll read it to you.’

  He sat down on the bed again and took a slip of paper from his note-case. He began to read, the archaic words sounding even more strange in his precise voice.

  ‘“Three drops of blood from a royal wound, three dull stars like the pigeon’s egg, held and knit together with a flowery chain. Yet when a Pontisbright do wear it, none shall see it but by the stars.”’

  As he finished reading he eyed Guffy gravely through his enormous spectacles.

  ‘It sounds very difficult, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘That bit about it not being visible when it’s on, for instance. Besides, those ancient crowns weren’t one of those red-plush bowler-hat affairs with festoons of jewellery. They made ’em almost any shape. Well, then, that’s that. Our next little problem is the charter. That’s written on parchment, which, according to the stationery bills of the time, must have been either one-half or one-quarter of a whole sheepskin. It’s written in Latin, of course, bears Henry the Fourth’s seal and his mark. I don’t think the fellow could write. And the third treasure, is, as it should be, the most important of all, and simply consists of Metternich’s receipt for the money in 1814. Heaven knows what that looks like. So, you see, we’re going to have fun.’

  Guffy’s pleasant round face flushed. ‘It’s rather jolly, though, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I mean, I rather like it. Who’s got the Pontisbright manor house now? I ought to know that part of the coun
try well, but I can’t even remember having heard the name before.’

  Mr Campion met Farquharson’s eyes and grimaced. ‘That’s where we come up against another snag,’ he said. ‘There’s no longer any house at all. When the title lapsed the old Countess, who was the only member of the family left, simply sold up everything, lock, stock, and barrel. The entire place was dismantled and sold piece by piece, until nothing but a hole which had contained the foundations was left. It was one of the great acts of vandalism of the Victorian era.’ He paused. ‘Not very helpful, is it?’

  ‘But the garden,’ persisted Guffy. ‘This fellow Peaky Doyle distinctly mentions the garden.’

  ‘Oh, the grounds are still there, we believe,’ put in Farquharson. ‘Not kept up at all, you know, but still there.’

  ‘But isn’t there anyone even remotely connected with the family living in the place? In the dower house, or somewhere?’

  ‘There’s a mill,’ ventured Eager-Wright. ‘That’s inhabited by the family of a man who made an unsuccessful claim to the title just before the war. He was killed in France afterwards, and the family consists of a few kids, I think, but we’re not sure about that. You think we ought to go down there, Campion?’

  The tall fair young man in horn-rimmed spectacles nodded.

  ‘I think so. After all, as far as we know Peaky Doyle and his friends are the only people who are interested in this affair besides us, and in our present position with nothing definite to lay hands on, let us go and see what the other fellow’s got.’

  ‘Now that’s sensible,’ said Mr Lugg with the sublime confidence of a man who cannot conceive a situation when his opinion is not useful. ‘Only all I say is, find out first ’oo you’re up against. And if it’s you know who I mean, leave it alone.’

  Mr Campion ignored him. ‘Look here, Farquharson,’ he said, ‘in your position as Equerry-in-Chief, I wonder if you’d mind making all the necessary arrangements? Pay our bills and give notice and see we leave to-night.’