Kettle did not speak, and a change came over Campion’s face.
He leaned forward.
‘If she’s been hurt, Kettle, I’ll break my rule and kill you! Now then, animal, tell us all about it.’
Mr Kettle sat on the edge of his chair, his large hands spread out on the table, and looked neither to right nor to left.
‘Come on,’ said Campion. ‘We know practically everything. Out with it.’
Still Mr Kettle remained silent, his mouth twitching. Marlowe took a step forward. ‘You’ll tell us here and now,’ he said, ‘or I’ll smash you to pulp.’
‘No need,’ said Campion. ‘What is he now? I see I may as well repeat the procedure to you, Kettle. We’ll start at the beginning. A suit of clothes came into your hands, and you thought you’d be clever with them. You were – my hat you were. So thunderingly clever that you set not only us but your own dirty employers buzzing round your head. I gave you credit for so much stupidity, but what I didn’t believe was that you’d be fool enough to tell your own people about it yourself.’ He turned to Marlowe. ‘That’s where I miscalculated the time. Now,’ he went on, returning to his victim, ‘you got orders to kidnap the first one of us that came into the shop, you and your precious daughter were to chloroform him, and I suppose the rest of the business was perfectly simple.’
It was evident from the look of wonderment on the postmaster’s face that so far Campion had been very near the truth.
‘Having captured Biddy,’ continued Mr Campion, ‘no doubt you telephoned some apparently innocent message to Heronhoe, or wherever the van was waiting, and along came the one vehicle that wouldn’t be questioned by the police on the Stroud – a reputable-looking trade van. You loaded your crates into it, one of which contained the poor kid. Now then, where did they take her to?’
He had taken off his spectacles, and as he leaned across the table to the shivering man his pale eyes were bright and hard.
Mr Kettle made an inarticulate sound; his mouth sagged open.
‘If they find out you know all this they’ll kill me,’ he slobbered at last. ‘Oh, Mr Campion, sir’ – he grovelled across the table, his hands plucking at the cloth – ‘don’t let them ever know – don’t let them ever know!’
‘Where have they taken her?’ repeated Campion.
‘I don’t know.’ Mr Kettle was on the verge of tears: there was no doubting his sincerity. ‘I never seen either of ’em before. I get my orders by ’phone, in code. I wouldn’t ’a’ done it if I could ’a’ ’elped it – reelly I wouldn’t. I couldn’t ’elp it – I ’ad to obey ’em.’
Mr Campion rose from the table where he had been seated.
‘I believe him,’ he said gloomily. ‘I think perhaps the nastiest thing we can do is to leave him to his unspeakable pals.’
‘I’d tell you,’ wailed Mr Kettle. ‘I’d tell you anything if only I knew it.’
‘I believe you would,’ said Campion contemptuolisly. ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt they’ve kept you in the dark all right. They’re not such fools that they don’t know the type they’ve got working for them. Come on, Marlowe. He’ll keep his mouth shut for his own sake.’
Marlowe, as they strode across the green, looked at his companion curiously. ‘How much of this yarn of Kettle’s did you know when you went into the store?’ he said.
Campion frowned. ‘Not as much as I ought to have done,’ he said bitterly. ‘And there’s still a link I don’t get. I told you, it was misjudging Kettle’s abysmal idiocy that put me out. I knew they couldn’t have got going on the job so soon after the discovery of the clothes unless they had heard about it at the same time we did; and that was only possible if our friend Kettle told them himself. As he’d made such a hash of it, I didn’t dream he would. But he did, and I should think from the look of him that they had come down hot and strong.’
‘Then it was Kettle who doctored those clothes?’
‘Not a doubt of it. Though heaven only knows how he got hold of them. The only thing that matters at the moment is Biddy,’ he went on suddenly, lifting up his head. ‘Get her back and then we can start.’
‘I’m with you there,’ said Marlowe with conviction. ‘What are you going to do?’
Campion shrugged his shoulders impatiently. ‘God only knows,’ he said. ‘The old mental machinery seems to have conked out altogether.’
They walked on in silence. As they came into the house through the conservatory door which stood open they heard Mrs Whybrow’s voice raised, high and suspicious. She was talking to someone in the inner hall.
‘Mr Campion? I don’t know if ’e’s in, but I’ll take your name if you’ll give it me. Who shall I say ’as called?’
A bright unpleasant voice answered her, indescribable in its cockney self-assurance.
‘Don’t say any name. Just go up to ’im, put yer ’ead close to ’is ear, and say, soft-like, “Gent on a bike”.’
18 The Unspeakable Thos
MR CAMPION, STANDING in the outer hall, remained for a moment perfectly silent, listening.
‘Who is it?’
Mr Campion took off his spectacles and wiped them with a tasteful line in silk handkerchiefs. ‘That, my unfortunate friend,’ he said gloomily, ‘is the unspeakable Thos. Thos T. Knapp. T. stands for “tick”.’
‘Why, if it ain’t my old sport Bertie!’ said the voice, appreciably nearer. ‘I ’eard your pipe from out ’ere, my lovely.’
Simultaneously with this last announcement, Mr Thos Knapp himself appeared in the doorway, where he stood looking in on them with bright, sharp, sparrow-like eyes. He was an undersized young man with a broken snub nose and an air of undefatigable jauntiness. His clothes must have been the pride of the Whitechapel Road: fantastically cut garments, they comprised a suit of a delicate shade of purple, together with a fancy tie designed in shot silk by a man with a warped imagination, and the ensemble neatly finished off by bright yellow shoes of incredible length and narrowness.
Mr Campion surveyed him against the venerable dark oak panelling. ‘Quite the little knut, isn’t he?’ he said pleasantly.
Mr Knapp removed a large, flat, buff superstructure and smiled at Marlowe, revealing an astonishing assortment of teeth.
‘’E’s a spark, ain’t ’e?’ he said, jerking his head towards Campion affably. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. Well, Bertie, I’ve come down for a bit of private conversation with you. Nice little place you’ve got ’ere. I didn’t ’alf ’ave a time findin’ it on my bike. I left it outside. By the way, I suppose it’ll be safe? I ’ad to pinch the bike in Ipswich or I shouldn’t ’ave got ’ere at all. Wonderful quiet place. I didn’t even ’ave to paint it. I often feel you and me could do something in these parts, Bertie.’
‘How did you know I was here?’ said Campion.
‘Ah!’ Mr Knapp put his head upon one side and spoke with exaggerated caution. ‘You may know, Bertie, that from time to time I come across bits of information.’ He glanced at Marlowe questioningly.
Campion nodded. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘One of us.’
‘Is that so?’ Mr Knapp shook hands with Marlowe once more.
‘On the American side,’ Campion explained easily. ‘But what I want to know is how you found me here.’
‘Now then, now then, not so eager,’ said Mr Knapp playfully. ‘As a matter o’ fac’, Magersfontein Lugg put me on to you. And a very good job ’e did, too. I’ve got something that will interest you, Bertie.’
Campion shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Knappy,’ he said, ‘but nothing that isn’t directly connected with the job I’m on at the moment ever interests me.’
‘Well!’ said Mr Knapp indignantly. ‘Well! Bit free, aren’t yer? Bit free? Wot d’yer think I come down ’ere for? Fifteen miles on a ruddy bicycle. Are you teetotal in this ’ouse?’
Marlowe grinned. ‘Bring him into the study,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some beer.’ He went off, and Mr Knapp looked after him appreciatively.
‘A nice chap to work with, I should think,’ he said. ‘You’re always lucky, you are, Bertie. Lovely place, nice people, food and drink ad lib. It isn’t as though you was smart or anything. It’s luck, that’s what it is.’
‘Now look here,’ said Campion. ‘Out with it. What’s the information? Remember, if it’s any more of your filthy Rubinstein tricks I’ll chuck you out as I told you I would. I’m not interested, see?’
‘All right,’ said Mr Knapp, ‘I only ’appened to ’ear something directly connected with you and this ’ere Lobbett business, so I come all the way to see yer.’
Mr Campion’s interest was now thoroughly aroused. ‘Hold on a moment,’ he said. ‘This sounds more like it.’
‘Wot did I tell yer?’ said Mr Knapp. ‘You an’ me ’ave worked in the past, Bertie. We’re after the same style, we are. We understand one another.’
Mr Campion made no comment, and at this moment Marlowe’s voice from the other end of the corridor so distracted Mr Knapp that he was completely uncommunicative until he found himself seated at the heavy oak table in the library, a glass at his side.
‘That’s right,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘When I die, don’t forget, Bertie – wreath of ’ops. Now, I dessay I’m ’olding you up. You know my terms, old sport.’
He nodded to Campion, who signed to him to continue.
‘Well, then, we won’t go into my methods before strangers’ – he winked at Campion – ‘but yesterday afternoon I ’appened to over’ear a very curious conversation.’
‘On the telephone?’ said Campion.
‘Natcherally. Private line wot I was interested in. Never got much off it before – only recently been installed. But wot I ’eard was this – roughly, you understand.’
He paused, and produced a small shabby notebook. ‘I cops in ’arfway through, you get me, so I didn’t ’ear the beginning. There was two voices, one soft and smooth as you like, and the other sounded like it was disguised. Assumed foreign accent, I reckoned. This last one seemed to be the boss. “Wot?” ’e was sayin’, “that man’s a fool – get rid of ’im. Who sent the clothes?” Then the other chap says, “There was no message, only the ’andwritin’ on the label”. Then the boss says, “Well, that’s the man you want, isn’t it?”’
Mr Knapp looked up. ‘This didn’t seem no use to me,’ he continued. ‘And then, quite sudden, the boss says, “’Oo’s this Albert Campion?” and the other chap says, “I’ll find out about ’im”. Then of course I was interested, but they didn’t say much more after that. All I ’eard was the boss say, “If it was the girl’s writin’ get ’er up an’ put ’er through it. You can arrange that. She must know somethink. As soon as you ’ear anythink, communicate with me in the usual way,” says the voice. Then ’e rings off.’
Marlowe looked at Campion, but his eyes were hidden behind his glasses and his face was expressionless. ‘Look here, Thos,’ he said, ‘where did you hear all this?’
Mr Knapp shook his head and appealed to Marlowe. ‘Artful, ain’t ’e?’ he said. ‘Before we go any further I want to know just ’ow interested you are in this. ’Ow do we stand?’
Campion sighed. ‘Thos, you make me writhe,’ he said. ‘How much do you want?’
Mr Knapp rose to his feet. ‘I’ll tell you wot,’ he said, ‘I’ll be a gent too. I’ll come in with you. I can be a good sport when I like. I’ve often wanted to work with you again, Bertie,’ he went on, somewhat lugubriously. ‘Do you remember –?’
Mr Campion coughed. ‘We won’t go into that now,’ he said. ‘Let me point something out to you. Unless you know where these people were speaking from this information is no more than we know already.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Mr Knapp. ‘Wait for it. That is just exactly wot I do know. And I’m makin’ you a gentlemanly offer – wot I wouldn’t if I didn’t know you. I’ll come in with you. When we’re successful you coughs up and you coughs up ’andsome. ’Ow’s that?’
‘Fine,’ said Mr Campion. ‘But what do you imagine we’re up to?’
Mr Knapp hesitated. ‘Seems I’m doin’ all the talkin’,’ he said. ‘But since I know you, Bertie, I’ll say that one of yer little party ’ere is about to be took off to ’ave a particularly nasty time. Is there a young woman down ’ere?’
Marlowe spoke before Campion could stop him. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘Miss Paget has already disappeared.’
‘Ho?’ said Mr Knapp, his eyes flickering. ‘So you wasn’t comin’ across, Bertie? Well, I’ll treat you fair, if you don’t me. Fifty quid for that address, and another fifty when we get the girl back. Then I’ll ’elp you, for the sake of old times. Saved me ruddy life, ’e did once,’ he added conversationally to Marlowe. ‘Stuffed me down a drain and kept me there till danger was past. I’ve never forgot that. Now what do you say to that, Bert?’
‘Since we’re all on the make,’ said Campion slowly, ‘I’ll give you a piece of information for your first fifty and the second fifty down when we get the girl.’
‘Wot information?’ said Mr Knapp cautiously.
‘A little matter of “snide”,’ said Campion lightly. ‘I think you ought to know about it.’
All the bounce left Mr Knapp. ‘I’m on,’ he said softly. ‘Come across. That’s my old man, you know. Break ’is ’eart if anythink ’appened to that business.’
‘That’s right,’ said Campion affably. ‘You’re the heir, aren’t you?’
‘Come across,’ said Mr Knapp doggedly.
‘They’re watching the building. I’d get your grandfather to move if I were you. Etching presses are very suspicious.’
‘’Ow do I know you’re not kiddin’?’
‘Well you can always stay and find out,’ said Campion carelessly. ‘But there’s a new flower-seller at the end of the street, and an invalid man spends most of his time in a wheel chair on the balcony of the house opposite.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Knapp thoughtfully. ‘I see. Gawd! ’Ood a’ thought of that after all these years!’ He seemed lost in contemplation. Campion brought him back to earth.
‘Suppose you give us the address.’
‘Thirty-two Beverley Gardens, Kensington, W8.’ He spoke without hesitation. ‘It’s a nice little ’ouse. Swell part. I ’ad a look at it as I come past. Three floors an’ a basement Steps up to front door. Easiest entrance by the roof. I got it all taped for you. I was workin’ it all out as I come down, just in case.’
He unfolded a grubby sheet of paper from his notebook. The other two bent over it.
‘Now this ’ere,’ he said, tapping a series of hieroglyphics with a distressing forefinger, ‘this gives you the ’ole plan of the roofs. This ’ouse is where I ’ang out. It backs almost directly on to Beverley Gardens. If we made my place the ’eadquarters – I’m on the top floor – we could nip across them roofs as easy as kiss yer ’and. They won’t think of keepin’ an eye on the roof, but I see a couple o’ heavy blokes watchin’ the place as I come past and I dessay there’s ’arf a dozen others inside. Money no object, it looked to me. I know the plan o’ the house, too,’ he went on, ‘because all that row is built on the same idea and the last one’s empty. I gave it the once-over in case there was any decent fittings left behind. Now just ’ere there’s a skylight which looks like wot we want. That gives into a sort of boxroom – the smallest of two attics. Outside that door there’s the stairs that goes down on to the first landing. After that –’
He was interrupted by Giles, who thrust his head round the door. ‘I suppose you know lunch has been waiting for half an hour?’ he said. ‘Where’s Biddy? I thought she was with you, Marlowe.’
He stopped short at the sight of Mr Knapp. Campion beckoned him into the room and closed the door behind him. ‘Look here, old boy,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to get up to London as quick as we can. Don’t get the wind up, but they’ve got Biddy.’
It was some moments before Giles comprehended. Campion explained all they knew of her disa
ppearance, and gradually the slow anger kindled in the boy’s eyes.
‘My God, someone’ll pay for this,’ he said. ‘I’ll thrash that little whelp Kettle within an inch of his life.’
Campion frowned. ‘My dear old bird,’ he said, ‘we shall need all the spitefulness you can muster this evening. Get her back first. Our friend here seems to have been doing a spot of borough surveying on our behalf. By the way’ – he turned to Knapp – ‘I suppose you’ve got all the necessary penknives and whatnots?’
Mr Knapp’s expression was eloquent. ‘Wot d’you take me for?’ he said. ‘I got all my uncle’s stuff after ’e was pinched. Wot we want’ – he ticked the items off on his fingers – ‘is a couple o’ jemmies, a small ’ook ladder, and ’arf a dozen life preservers, assorted sizes. A good old-fashioned outfit. Wot surprises me, you know, Bert,’ he went on, suddenly changing his tone, ‘is that these people should kidnap anyone. It ain’t their line by a long chalk.’
Campion swung round on him. ‘Who do you think they are?’
‘’Oo do I know they are,’ said the visitor. ‘A new lot – blackmail, I shouldn’t wonder. The chap tells fortunes – a bloke with a red beard.’
‘Anthony Datchett?’
‘Is that wot ’e calls ’imself?’ Mr Knapp was unimpressed. ‘The only thing I thought was funny was ’im goin’ in for this sort of thing at all. Seems to me ’e’s doin’ a job for someone, same as I’m doin’ a job for you.’
‘Answered in one,’ said Campion. ‘As far as intelligence is concerned you’re coming on, Thos.’
‘That’s right, flatter me,’ said Mr Knapp, without enthusiasm.
‘What I can’t understand,’ broke in Giles explosively, ‘is why they took Biddy. There were all the rest of us about – why pitch on her?’
‘That’s easy,’ said Knapp. ‘I told these chaps that at the beginning. She sent a parcel of clothes by post, wot was mucked about with. Which is, I take it, wot they want to know about.’
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