He went out to the doorway and called, ‘Lugg!’
There was a heavy step in the passage, and the next moment the largest and most lugubrious individual Marlowe had ever seen appeared on the threshold. He was a hillock of a man, with a big pallid face which reminded one irresistibly of a bull terrier. He was practically bald, but by far the most outstanding thing about him was the all-pervading impression of melancholy which he conveyed. He was somewhat unconventionally clothed in what looked remarkably like a convict’s tunic, apparently worn as a house-coat over an ordinary suit.
Campion grinned at him. ‘Still in your blazer?’ he said pleasantly.
The man did not smile.
‘I thought you was alone, sir,’ he said, revealing a sepulchral voice. ‘I put it on, sir, when attending to the bird’s cage,’ he remarked to Marlowe. ‘It may interest you to know, sir,’ he added, once more addressing his master, ‘that during yer absence ’e’s laid an egg.’
‘No?’ said Mr Campion. ‘Don’t you believe it, Lugg. He pinched it from a pigeon to deceive you. He’s pulling your leg. I’ve known Autolycus for years. He’s not that kind of a bird.’ He turned to Marlowe. ‘Autolycus and I are always trying to cheer Lugg up,’ he said. ‘We prepare little surprises like this for him. Now, Lugg, suppose you mix us a drink and tell us the news. By the way, Marlowe, you’ve met Uncle Beastly before. He told you he was the Aphrodite Glue Works once, but that was only his fun. Lugg,’ he went on, his manner changing, ‘I want some information about one or two people. There’s a fortune-teller chap who works country houses, who has awakened my interest. But most particularly I want an authority on the American side. Who do you suggest, Lugg?’
‘Well, in my opinion, sir, though you won’t take it, I’m sure’ – the tone was once more aggrieved – ‘if I was you, I’d apply to Thos Knapp. It’s wonderful wot ’e picks up, one way and another.’
Mr Campion’s pale face flushed. ‘I’ll be hanged if I do,’ he said with unusual heat. ‘There are some people at whom even I draw the line. As I’ve told you before, Lugg, we do not associate with Mr Knapp.’
‘Wot did I tell you?’ said Mr Lugg, unexpectedly turning to Marlowe. ‘’E won’t be guided by me. Keeps me as a pet about the ’ouse, ’e does.’
‘I know,’ said Mr Campion suddenly. ‘Our old friend Stanislaus. Get me on to the Yard.’
‘Imperialism,’ muttered Mr Lugg bitterly. But he took up the telephone and gave the magic number. His voice assumed a husky, confidential tone.
‘Mr Ash – Mr Tootles Ash to speak to Detective-Inspector Stanislaus Oates, if you please. ’Ullo, sir, yes, sir, it’s me, sir. Very nicely, sir, thank you. Very nicely, sir, too, sir. Laid an egg, sir. Oh no, sir. Mr Tootles is ’ere, sir.’
Mr Campion took the receiver.
‘Hullo, Stanislaus,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How’s the son and heir? Another tooth? Wonderful! I say, Stanislaus, do you know anything about a chap called Datchett?’ His face became animated as he listened. ‘That’s him I – a chap with a curling red beard . . . Blackmail? Why don’t you get him? Oh, I see . . . What had he got on Mrs Cary at Maplestone Hall? Eh? Yes, of course he was in it, you ought to know that . . . Yes, well, go all out for him, and when you get him, bring up the subject of the Reverend Swithin Cush . . . I don’t know; that’s what I want to find out. All the best. Oh – they say “Delila’s” a good thing for tomorrow. So long.’
He rang off. ‘Well, that’s something,’ he said. ‘I think a concise history of our friend old Baa Baa Blacksheep might be a good idea. And the man who can probably tell us more about him than anyone is the best old Sherlock of them all – old W.T.’
Within a few minutes he was chatting affably. ‘Hullo, is that you, W.T.? Hewes speaking. Sorry to disturb your millennium, but in your adventurous youth did you ever come across a man called Fergusson Barber? I should say he’s an Armenian or a Turk of some sort. He might be a dealer . . . Oh, was he? Even as a young man? You remember him well? Kleptomaniac? I rather gathered that myself.’
The old detective’s voice sounded so clearly over the wire that some of the words reached Marlowe.
‘Will steal anything of small value,’ he said. ‘Seems to have a passion for bread . . .’
Campion took up the conversation, and for some time the listener could not follow the talk. When at last he rang off, Campion sighed. ‘Barber seems a funny old cuss,’ he said. ‘It seems that W.T. met him over an affair at the Lord Mayor’s banquet. If you pinch the cutlery at a restaurant it doesn’t matter much, but start taking home souvenirs from the Mansion House and no one is amused. Apparently the old chap has establishments all over the place. Dabbles in every sort of dealing and collecting. W.T. says he has a harem, but spreads it about over the earth. But now,’ he went on, the old anxious look returning to his eyes, ‘to the one really fundamental and serious matter in hand – your father. Lugg, who can tell us anything about the Simister crowd?’
Mr Lugg raised his eyes in pious horror. ‘Now I warn yer,’ he said, his voice becoming plaintive, ‘I warn yer. You’re ignorant compared with me. You don’t know. They’re a nasty lot, leave ’em alone. Yer own mother couldn’t give yer better advice.’
‘My hat, I wouldn’t like to hear her advice on this question,’ said Mr Campion scandalized. ‘Come on, pull yourself together. What can we do?’
‘I shall wear a black band round me ’at for yer,’ said Mr Lugg. ‘The funeral cards’ll cost a bit, ’avin’ all your different names on ’em.’
‘Mon, you’re makin’ a fearrful exhibition o’ yersel,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I think perhaps we will have a chat with Mr van Houston.’
‘Very good, sir. ’E calls ’imself “’Omer, the society photographer”, now.’ Lugg took out a dilapidated notebook and looked out the number.
Mr Campion took the instrument, and a long and animated conversation ensued in what was apparently a French argot.
He finished, and hanging up the receiver, returned to Marlowe. ‘That sounds most promising,’ he said, ‘but it’s hardly cheerful. Apparently there’s great activity in certain quarters. I think we’re on the right tack. Lugg, has anyone of the fraternity been away recently, except for the usual reasons?’
Mr Lugg considered. ‘Now you come to mention it, sir,’ he said, ‘I was talkin’ about that down at the club only last night. There’s been a notable absence among the really nasty customers lately. Ikey Todd an’ is lot Very significant, I thought it.’
‘Very,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Did you hear any other funny stories at this club of yours?’
‘Well, since you’re being nosey, as you might say,’ said Mr Lugg affably, ‘I did ’ear that Ropey is back in the country.’
‘Ropey?’ said Mr Campion questioningly. Then a slow expression of disgust passed over his face. ‘Not the man who –’
Lugg nodded. ‘That’s ’im. “’Tis an infamy that such a bloke as you should live,” said the Beak. You know ’im.’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Campion, ignoring Lugg’s effort at local colour.
Marlowe looked at him dubiously. ‘I haven’t got much of all this. What does it all amount to?’
Mr Campion considered. ‘We’ve got daylight on one or two interesting points,’ he said. ‘In the first place, we know who Mr Datchett is. He’s a blackmailer, though what he had on poor old Swithin Cush is more than I can possibly imagine. I think he must have been a spy in his spare time. Then we’ve placed Mr Barber, but that doesn’t help us any. And last, and most important, we’ve discovered that there is a move on amongst those gentlemen who can be hired for any really unpleasant job. So Simister isn’t working altogether with his own men. He must be doing this as a kind of side line to protect himself. The attacking army isn’t a very bright lot. I don’t know about the brains behind it. On the whole the prospect looks brighter than I expected to find it.’
There was a tap at the outside door, and Lugg went to open it.
‘Say I’ve gone t
o Birmingham for my health,’ said Mr Campion.
Lugg returned in an instant, an orange envelope in his hand. He handed it to Campion, who tore open the flap and glanced at the contents. As he read, a sharp exclamation escaped him and he became paler than before. He passed the telegram silently to Marlowe. It ran:
COME AT ONCE STOP BODY FOUND STOP BIDDY
15 The Exuberance of Mr Kettle
BIDDY MET THEM at Ipswich Station in Judge Lobbett’s big Daimler.
‘I knew you wouldn’t mind my bringing this,’ she said somewhat unexpectedly to Marlowe as they came across the station yard.
‘My dear girl –’ Marlowe looked at her in amazement. ‘I want to know all about it. Where did they find him?’
Biddy stared at him. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘We’re talking about the body,’ said Campion. ‘You wired us.’
The girl’s bewilderment increased. ‘I wired you we’d found a clue,’ she said. ‘There’s no trace of Mr Lobbett himself.’
Marlowe drew the telegram from his pocket and handed it to her. She read it through and turned to them, her cheeks reddening.
‘Oh, my dear, how you must have been tortured all the way down,’ she said impetuously. ‘This is Kettle. His daughter found the clothes, and he’s so excited about it he’s gone nearly insane. I think my wire to you ran more or less like this: “Come at once. Important clue. Meet you four-thirty train.” I wondered why you wired me.’
Marlowe wiped the perspiration off his forehead.
‘Now about this discovery,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Just what is it? What did Kettle’s daughter find?’
‘She found Mr Lobbett’s clothes,’ said Biddy; ‘the suit he disappeared in, I mean. They were soaked with sea water and torn, and I’m afraid there’s blood on them, Marlowe. But that doesn’t mean he’s dead, does it?’ she went on eagerly, and Campion, glancing down, saw that she had laid her hand upon Marlowe’s arm.
‘Not necessarily, of course.’
Campion’s voice was slightly irritated. ‘Where did Miss Kettle make this interesting discovery?’
‘Up the Saddleback Creek. I wired you at once. As a matter of fact, we were frightened, Isopel and I. She’s all right now. Giles is with her. I never dreamed Kettle would send a crazy wire like that one.’
Marlowe looked bewildered. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that a postmaster could get into serious trouble for a thing like that.’
‘So he can,’ said Campion grimly. ‘Something tells me that he’s going to get it. Didn’t you fill in a form, Biddy?’
‘No, I took it in to him on a piece of paper. I expect my scribble was partly to blame. You know how I write when I’m excited.’ She smiled wryly at Campion. ‘You’ve no idea how dithery he is. He’s only a silly old man, Albert.’
Mr Campion did not reply, but his expression was dubious.
They got into the car and went back to the house.
Campion followed Marlowe into the white-panelled room, where on the round table stood a large tin tray, on which was a suit of clothes still wet with sea water. Marlowe glanced at Campion, a sharp quick look, full of apprehension.
‘It’s his suit, sure enough,’ he said.
Campion nodded. A gloomy expression had come into his eyes. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared darkly at the tray with its contents.
‘Nothing in the pockets, I suppose?’ he said.
‘No, nothing at all,’ said Isopel. ‘The clothes must have been rifled before they were discovered. All the pockets were pulled inside out.’
Marlowe was still turning over the muddy flannel. ‘Hullo!’ he said, and held up the waistcoat, in which there was a jagged little hole surrounded by dark ominous stains. Mr Campion came over to the table and bent over the garment. He made no comment, and Biddy nudged him.
‘Don’t torture them,’ she whispered. ‘What does it all mean?’
His reply was silenced by a commotion in the hall outside.
‘My good woman’ – Mr Kettle’s voice reached them, raised in protest. ‘My good woman, show me in immediately. I am needed in there, and I ’ave every reason to suppose that my presence is awaited eagerly.’
‘I ain’t showin’ anyone in without Master Giles’s word. You ought to be ‘shamed o’ yowself, Kettle, forcin’ your way in ‘pon a bereaved family. They don’t want to see you now.’ Cuddy’s voice, shrill and contemptuous, answered him.
‘Shall I go and send him away?’ said Biddy.
Campion glanced at Marlowe. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he began, ‘I think it would be an idea if we interviewed old Cleversides ourselves.’
Marlowe nodded. ‘Certainly, if you think there’s anything to be gained by it,’ he said, and opened the door. ‘Come in, Mr Kettle, will you?’
The unprepossessing postmaster shot one delighted glance at the angry Cuddy and stalked into the room with the air of a conqueror. He was clutching his bowler hat, and was still in his overcoat which he had put on to hide his apron.
‘’Ere I am, sir,’ he said to Marlowe. There was a faint tinge of colour in his flaccid face. ‘I saw the car turn into the drive and I put on me ’at and run after you, sir. I knew you’d be wantin’ the truth. My daughter, sir, she found the remains, as you might say.’ His eyes were watering and his lips twitching with excitement.
‘Is your daughter here?’ said Campion with unusual peremptoriness.
‘No, sir.’ Mr Kettle assumed an air of parental indignation. ‘Wot?’ he said, with great dignity. ‘Think, sir. ’Ow could I subject the poor girl to look on once again that ’orror that ’as turned ’er from a ’ealthy woman, sir, to a mere wreck of ’er former self?’
In spite of the anxiety of the situation there was something extremely laughable in Mr Kettle’s rhetorical outburst.
He lent an air of theatricality to a scene that would otherwise have been too terrible.
‘No, sir, she is not ’ere,’ he continued. ‘And I may add, sir,’ he went on with gathering righteousness, ‘that she was in such an ’elpless state, sir, such a nasty ’opeless condition, sir, that I left ’er to mind the post office and come myself. I would like to mention also, sir,’ he added, fixing a malignant eye upon Giles, ‘that although I ’ave offered myself to be the messenger, no one ’as, as yet, sent for the police. It will look very suspicious, sir, when they do come. Although you are the son of the dead man, sir’ – he swung round upon Marlowe on the words – ‘it’ll look nasty.’
‘What dead man?’ said Mr Campion, coming forward. He had developed a magisterial air that contrasted very oddly with his appearance. ‘Have you got the body?’
‘Me, sir? Oh no, sir.’ Mr Kettle was not in the least abashed. ‘When we find that I dare say we’ll know who killed ’im.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Mr Campion with interest. ‘How was he killed?’
‘With a dagger, sir.’ Mr Kettle made the startling announcement in a breathless whisper.
‘How do you know?’ said Mr Campion.
Mr Kettle rested one hand upon the table and assumed the attitude of a lecturer. ‘I ’ave the detective mind, sir,’ he said. ‘I form my theories and they work out in accordance.’
‘That’s rather nice,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I must do that.’
Mr Kettle ignored him. ‘To begin with, let us start with the discovery of this clue.’ He waved his hand towards the table. ‘My daughter, sir, an innocent girl, unsuspecting, goes for a walk, sir. This is the seaside, she thinks; why shouldn’t she walk there?’
‘No reason at all,’ said Mr Campion. He was standing with one hand on Marlowe’s shoulder, and the American’s keen, clever face wore an expression of enlightenment.
‘Well, she went along the beach – that is, on the edge of the saltings – on the sea wall, in fact. Imagine ’er for yourselves, careless, free –’
‘Oh, cut the cackle,’ said Giles. ‘Tell us what happened.’
‘I’m speakin’ of my daughter, sir,�
�� said Mr Kettle with dignity.
‘You’re also speaking of this lady’s father,’ said Giles. ‘You’ll say what you know, and then clear out.’
A particularly nasty expression came into Mr Kettle’s white face.
‘You’re the wise one, sir,’ he said. ‘I shall be a witness at the inquest, don’t forget. It’s going to be very significant, I may say.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Mr Campion soothingly. ‘Suppose you tell us about those deductions of yours.’
The postmaster was mollified. ‘My knowledge is based on these instructive facts, sir,’ he said. ‘Look at this jagged hole, right over the region of the heart. Was that made by a knife, or was it not? It was, sir. See those stains all round? If you don’t know what that is, I can tell you. It’s blood – ’eart’s blood, sir.’
Once more Giles was about to break out angrily, but this time it was Isopel who restrained him.
‘What does that show, sir? The victim was stabbed to death with a knife. Then again, these clothes are soppin’ wet with sea water. What does that show?’
‘That they’ve been in the sea,’ suggested Mr Campion.
‘Exactly, sir, you’ve ‘it it in one. Mr Lobbett was taken out in a boat, stabbed through the heart, and thrown into the water.’
‘Where he undressed,’ said Mr Campion, ‘being careful to remove his braces. So far I think that’s perfectly clear. However, there are several other little matters that’ll have to be explained before we call in Scotland Yard. In the first place, there’s this knife thrust. Rather a curious incision, don’t you think? A little hole nicked with a pair of scissors and then made larger with a table knife. And then these bloodstains. The poor man seems to have bled from outside his clothes. The inside, you see, is pretty clean. But the gore on the outside is sensational. I wonder who’s been killing chickens lately?’
Mr Kettle sat down on the edge of a chair, his face immovable. Mr Campion continued.
‘There is something fishy about this – a whole kettle of fishiness, I might say. Someone’s been playing the fool with you. I should go back to the post office.’
Mystery Mile Page 11