Mr Campion's Visit

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Very little, I’m afraid, scraps mostly, and to make sense of things I need to ask a question and a favour.’

  ‘As long as you realize I am under no obligation to either answer or grant.’

  ‘Understood. I was interested to know whether Professor Perez-Catalan was carrying a torch when he was assaulted.’

  Appleyard considered the question for half a minute before deciding it was harmless. ‘If he was, we haven’t found it. Could be in the lake, of course, like his body.’

  ‘You haven’t dragged the lake yet?’

  Appleyard bristled. ‘I am having to spread my resources across a number of fields of enquiry,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘I quite understand,’ Campion soothed. ‘Now, my favour. Would it be possible for me to examine the professor’s cottage down in the village?’

  ‘I don’t see why not; we’ve finished with it and technically it’s not a crime scene. You won’t find anything because we didn’t. Big Gerry Meade has a set of keys; he’ll let you in.’

  ‘I would rather act independently,’ Campion said, perhaps too quickly.

  The superintendent shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. The professor was carrying a set of keys. I’ll get one of my lads to peel off his house key, but I must have it back – chain of evidence for the inquest and all that.’

  ‘I understand and thank you. In return, can I offer you a snippet of what may be scurrilous gossip? I am given to understand that there was an article in the Socialist Worker claiming all sorts of conspiracies involving the CIA and the professor’s research. I’m not sure when it appeared, but it might be worth getting one of your lads to dig it out.’

  Now the superintendent did the completely unexpected. With some difficulty, he forced half his facial muscles into producing what could pass, if one was being generous, as a smile.

  ‘I can do better than that – I can give you a photostat of the article. It’s quite interesting – and so is the author. A certain Nigel Honeycutt, no less, the loyal assistant of the very professor he’s accusing of being one of capitalism’s running dogs, or hyenas, I forget which. We seem to be way ahead of you, Mr Campion.’

  ‘It won’t be the first time, Superintendent, and probably not the last.’

  Campion strode from Black Dudley, altering his planned day as he walked back towards the campus buildings. He was sure that there was much in the late professor’s private life that was germane to his death, and the starting point for that would be his cottage in White Dudley. But what the superintendent had told him – and what he had not said – made Campion think that a visit to the Earth Sciences department was now the priority, and his route there, back over the curved bridge – the real scene of the crime – gave him the chance to do something he had forgotten to do on his first traverse.

  This time he was heading south, and pointed in the right direction to observe the triangle peaks of the pyramid residences. From the middle of the bridge he could clearly see the top three floors of each pyramid and certainly the top-floor flats at the peaks. Logic dictated that if he could see those rooms, or at least their windows, then someone inside looking out would have a clear line of sight of him on the bridge. Whether they could see him, or anyone else, at midnight, unless he was waving a torch around, was another matter.

  Over the bridge he took the path which ran alongside the lake until it turned into Piazza 3, where the student population had reluctantly come to life and were shambling towards lectures and seminars. He also noted, with a mixture of disapproval and amusement, a row of empty bottles of light ale arranged neatly on the edge of what had been the central fountain before it became a firepit; now, it seemed, it was being used as a ‘midden’, which Campion was sure was what a rubbish dump was called in an academic setting.

  Through the main doors of the School of Earth Sciences, Campion was confronted by a floor-to-ceiling sign pointing him to a bewildering choice of offices, seminar rooms and laboratories, most of them dealing with a specific subject or subset of geology, geography, minerology, climatology and numerous ‘ologies’ which were new to him, plus the specific offices of members of staff. Here he felt on safer ground and followed the arrows to the staircase which, he was assured, would lead to the second floor and room 2.21 which was the office of the late Professor Catalan-Perez.

  Room 2.21, he found, was guarded by Room 2.21A; a small, open-plan affair occupied by a prim, middle-aged secretary wearing a powder-blue twin-set and a string of pearls, who sat behind a large electric typewriter giving every indication that she knew how to use it in anger. She had, to Campion’s eye, arranged her office furniture using the blueprint of a machine-gun nest, but when she looked up as he entered her field of fire, he saw that she had made several botched attempts with her morning make-up to hide the fact she had been crying.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, daring Campion to answer. ‘I know you don’t have an appointment, so don’t pretend you have. You press people are all the same.’

  Campion removed his fedora and held it over his heart for protection. ‘My name is Campion.’

  ‘I don’t care what newspaper you’re from, no one here has anything to say to you. The police have told us not to talk to the likes of you.’

  ‘I fear you are labouring under a misapprehension on two counts,’ Campion said gently. ‘Firstly, I am not a member of Her Majesty’s Press Corps in any shape or form; and secondly, the police have wisely told you not to talk to strangers, but they have insisted that I talk to you.’

  ‘To me?’ she pointed an index finger at herself at pearl-necklace level.

  ‘Well, not you personally; I’m not even sure who you are, but my remit is rather wide when it comes to anyone who had contact with the late Professor Perez-Catalan.’

  ‘Contact?’ the woman bristled. ‘I am the departmental secretary. My contact with the professor was purely professional and took place within office hours. I was never party to his extra-curricular activities and was certainly never invited to his private conclaves.’

  ‘My dear lady,’ Campion began to protest, but was rescued by the opening of the connecting door to Room 2.21 proper, through which poked the head of Dr ‘Call-me-Jack’ Szmodics.

  ‘Is there a problem, Sheila?’

  ‘Not at all, Pro-Vice-Chancellor. This is Mr Champion, but he hasn’t said why he’s intruding.’

  Dr Szmodics raised his eyebrows as he acknowledged the intruder.

  ‘Oh, hello, Campion, do come in. Sheila, I don’t believe you’ve met the university Visitor, Mr Albert Campion.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said the woman, and though Campion advanced a pace towards her extending his right hand, she dropped her gaze and busied herself inserting a new sheet of paper into her typewriter.

  ‘The pleasure was almost mine,’ said Campion under his breath.

  ‘Were you looking for me, Albert?’

  ‘No, Jack, but since I find you here, you can certainly help me in my unofficial capacity as one of Superintendent Appleyard’s unpaid and under-appreciated bloodhounds.’

  ‘Delighted to help if I can, but how?’

  ‘You can start by inviting me into Professor Catalan-Perez’s office. You see, I need to search it.’

  Dr Szmodics opened the door wide. ‘By all means, please enter.’

  As he did so, Campion was sure he heard Sheila emit a deep sob, but over the furious sound of typing it was difficult to be sure.

  Dr Szmodics took Campion’s casual announcement that he wanted to search the dead professor’s office as if it was the most natural request in the world, and seemed more worried about the reputation of the university staff.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive Sheila. She can be very protective, and she’s been the queen bee in this department since before Pascual got here.’

  ‘I’m presuming the police have interviewed her?’

  ‘Of course, she kept Pascual’s diary among other things; not that there was much of interest in it.’

  ‘Really?’
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br />   ‘Well, other than departmental meetings, his teaching schedule and his computer allocation. General academic stuff, nothing out of the ordinary. The police have it now, of course. Were you looking for anything specific in there?’

  ‘I wasn’t looking for it at all,’ said Campion. ‘I wanted to try and get a feel for his work, but now you mention a diary, I would be interested in any … shall we say … social entries, and by that, I mean entries of a very social nature.’

  Dr Szmodics stiffened as if a metal rod had been threaded down his spine.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’m trying to ask the indelicate in as delicate a way as possible.’ Campion turned away to avoid the pro-vice-chancellor’s disapproving stare and found himself taken with the view from the late professor’s office window. ‘You see, every time I mention Pascual’s name, the subject drifts to his … social life, and terms such as Randy Gaucho and Latin Lover get thrown into the mix with a total lack of decorum.’

  ‘Tango Trousers,’ said Szmodics.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ spluttered Campion, turning back to face him.

  ‘It’s what the student newspaper christened him two years ago and the nickname sort of stuck. He took it as a joke and actually bragged about it.’

  ‘As both the tango and gauchos are more relevant to Argentina than Chile, he was probably amused at your students’ lack of geographical awareness.’

  ‘That is a worry, I admit, but Pascual was quite unashamed about his reputation as a likely lad who chased the girls.’

  ‘Was he discreet about his conquests? I am presuming he had conquests?’

  Dr Szmodics moved to the connecting door to the secretary’s fortress and, with the flat of his hand, made sure it was firmly closed. ‘By all accounts, females found him irresistible, but he was discreet about his conquests, I’ll give him that; he didn’t flaunt his relationships.’

  ‘I take it you did not approve.’

  ‘I’m no prude, Campion, but there is always the good name of the university to consider.’

  ‘And the bishop.’

  There was a gleam in Dr Szmodics’s eyes as he said, ‘Who I understand is your personal problem.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Campion sighed. ‘I am supposed to report progress regularly to His Lordship, but so far there has been little to report that would not enrage him.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted to snoop around his office? Were you looking for smut?’

  Campion did his best to look outraged. ‘I take exception to that word, Dr Szmodics. I do not snoop, I peruse; admittedly, I may have given the impression that in this case I was perusing for smut, but my intention was to learn more about the professor’s work.’

  ‘Then you’re in the wrong place. Pascual used this office for departmental matters only. All his research work took place in the Computing Centre where he also has an office.’

  ‘I see …’ said Campion, as if inspiration had arrived direct from heaven without passing ‘Go’, ‘… so that explains your presence here; the Computing Centre coming under your remit as part of Language and Linguistics if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Campion. The vice chancellor asked me to make sure the department keeps running smoothly. Why else would I be in here?’

  ‘No reason at all, other than admiring the view.’

  He nodded towards the window, which framed the picture Constable might have painted had he been still alive and offered a decent fee, containing the length of the artificial lake, the curved bridge and, as a backdrop, Black Dudley. Constable, he was sure, could not have resisted the urge to add in a few oak trees, some black-and-white cattle and a horse-drawn cart or two.

  ‘You think I was here removing evidence, don’t you?’ Dr Szmodics spoke as if his own revelation had just arrived at the platform, albeit a few minutes late.

  ‘My dear chap, the thought had not occurred to me – until just now. You weren’t, were you?’

  Mr Campion could still hear Dr Szmodics’s loud and robust denials ringing in his ears, and feel the metaphorical tracer bullets fired from the secretary Sheila’s eyes – both barrels – thudding into his back as he left the Earth Sciences department.

  The piazzas were filling up with students clutching books and ring-binder files and notepads, hurrying between the buildings. They were dressed in an eclectic mixture of styles and although flared jeans were almost de rigueur for the boys, many of the girls were still participating in the ongoing fashion debate as to whether the mini or the maxi was ‘in’ this autumn.

  As he threaded his way through the bustling crowd, Mr Campion was heartened by the air of self-confidence given off by those young, fresh faces, even though he knew that the majority were probably the new intake and were alone and away from home for the first time. But then young people were resilient and resourceful and it was such a shame they had to grow up into adults. Most impressive of all was the fact that none of them found anything odd in a tall, thin, seventy-year-old wearing a suit, tie and fedora, walking among them. Perhaps they thought of him as a distinguished, though of course eccentric academic, looking for someone to give a lecture to. Campion took it as a compliment and, as he entered Piazza 1, decided to play the part.

  The open-air chessboard in front of the doors to the Computing Centre had been in use that morning, for the freshening breeze coming straight off the sea could not have moved the plywood pieces so neatly without divine intervention. To one side, several pawns the size of dustbins and a white knight had been removed from the ‘board’, which made Campion think the game had been abandoned, but a brief survey of the remaining pieces showed an obvious next move, if it was black’s turn.

  ‘Let boldness be my friend,’ Campion said aloud, and stepped on to the board. He grasped the black queen, which came up to his chest, around the collar and, with the side of his shoe against the square wooden base, he advanced it diagonally towards a gap in the ranks of the white enemy. When satisfied he was in the ideal position, he stopped pushing and released his hold on the queen. Retiring to the side of the squares, he admired his handiwork, briefly touched the rim of his fedora towards the queen, and stepped towards the glass doors on which was painted the legend ‘Computing Centre’.

  The doors opened before he got there and a long-haired, bearded male wearing a dark blue pullover dotted with holes and trailing loose threads of wool, jumped out to meet him. ‘How did you do that?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry if I’ve spoiled your game,’ said Campion. ‘Was it white’s move?’

  ‘No, it was black to move,’ admitted the chess player.

  ‘Then I must apologize for putting you into check.’

  ‘But how did you do it?’

  ‘It seemed a logical move and really rather obvious. I make no claims to be a grand master.’

  ‘But you didn’t give it time!’ the chess player wailed.

  ‘I didn’t realize I was playing anyone.’

  ‘You weren’t! I was playing the computer. I was white and the computer was black.’

  ‘Oh dear, and I suppose the computer would have come up with a much better move.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said the young man, whom Campion would henceforth always refer to as ‘Mr White’. ‘Putting me in check is a good move, but you didn’t give the computer time to work it out. I’m still waiting for the printout; you were just too flaming quick for it! That’s just not fair!’

  Mr Campion found himself in a room full of metal coffins all standing to attention, as if awaiting a good dusting from a house-proud robot undertaker; something which would be totally superfluous as the room was spotlessly clean and dust-free, the temperature in there held at that constant level technically known as chilly by the air-conditioning. Some of the upright boxes had Perspex panels through which blinked small green lights, and some had pairs of large spools which whirred and spun seemingly at random. The whole room throbbed with a quiet humming n
oise as the machines went about their mysterious business, only occasionally disturbed by the frantic clatter of a printer spewing a torrent of broad green paper into a shiny metal bin like a demented weaver’s loom ejecting bolt after bolt of finished cloth.

  ‘Mr White’, whose chess game Campion had hijacked, was in fact a postgraduate student called Oliver Brownlee, and once he had accepted that he was firmly in check, with ‘mate’ in three moves (although Campion thought two), he agreed to escort the Visitor into the Computing Centre. Dr Szmodics had rung ahead and warned the centre of an approaching VIP, and the centre’s manager, Charles Fowler, was expecting him.

  ‘But do have your cigarette first,’ Campion said.

  ‘What makes you think I smoke?’ asked White-Brownlee, his hand going automatically to his trouser pocket, from which he produced a squashed packet of ten Embassy cigarettes and a box of matches.

  ‘A good guess,’ said Campion. ‘I know little about computers other than they tend to be hermetically sealed in their own private atmospheres, whereas the chessboard gives you a good excuse to nip outside and move the pieces from time to time. The holes in your jumper are burn marks caused by sparks from a cigarette being enjoyed in a breezy location and this is a breezy location. No wonder the chess pieces are weighted at the base.’

  ‘Are you Sherlock Holmes?’ asked Oliver Brownlee, extracting a cigarette from the packet, having first removed to his other pocket the blue gift coupon which the brand offered.

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ exclaimed Campion. ‘Mr Holmes would know why a campus of open piazzas had been built facing east, into a wind coming straight from the Urals; I don’t.’

  Once inside the technological sanctum, Charles Fowler welcomed the Visitor in the way Campion suspected he welcomed all non-technical visitors, with a well-rehearsed opening line delivered with thinly disguised boredom.

  ‘So how much do you know about computers, Mr Campion?’

  ‘Less than nothing up until five minutes ago, when I realized I could beat one at chess.’ Campion beamed. ‘Which one did I best?’