Sweet Danger

by Margery Allingham

  Campion stirred. His face had lost its inanity and had become thoughtful.

  ‘It’s a great deal of money,’ he said. ‘But frankly that doesn’t interest me so much. The job sounds interesting. I should enjoy it.’

  Savanake nodded. ‘You would. That’s why I chose you rather than some brilliant young soldier. Frankly, it’s a job for an adventurer.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Mr Campion, and his eyes behind his spectacles became almost wistful. ‘What a pity,’ he added. ‘It really is a pity. I suppose you couldn’t hold the offer open for a week or so?’

  The big man glanced at him shrewdly. ‘No, I’m sorry, but that’s absolutely impossible. The thing must be done now if it’s done at all. It’ll take you a month to get to the place. There’s been some delay already. We’ve had difficulty in locating you. What’s the matter? Thinking about this little business you’re engaged on at the moment? Let me see, my enquiries tell me you were down in Suffolk somewhere. My dear boy, leave it. This is the chance of a lifetime.’

  He ruffled the papers on his desk and finally discovered the memorandum he sought.

  ‘Here we are. It’s a little government job, isn’t it? Government business is notoriously thankless. You take my advice and put it straight out of your mind. Just walk out and leave it. With a bureaucracy of the type which governs this benighted country the chances are that no one will ever notice that you’ve resigned. And, anyhow, if they do, what does it mean? A long enquiry, a period of unpopularity perhaps which will be safely over by the time you return. By then another government will probably be in power and the whole thing might never have happened.’

  Mr Campion remained dubious, and the personage, having pressed home his point, became more practical.

  ‘I have all the paraphernalia here,’ he said. He unlocked a leather file and displayed its contents. ‘There’s your reservation on the boat – one of our own liners, of course – here’s a letter to the captain, here are your instructions upon arriving on South American soil, here’s a letter which we will go into afterwards, and here’s five hundred pounds in notes. You’ll find it all arranged most thoroughly. I congratulate you, my boy, on seizing this chance of a lifetime.’

  Mr Campion looked pleasantly vacant. ‘When you say the matter is immediate,’ he said, ‘just how immediate do you mean?’

  Brett Savanake glanced up from the papers in his hand and for an instant his cold, grey eyes held Campion’s own.

  ‘When you leave this office,’ he said, ‘one of my secretaries will take you down to the ground floor, where a car will be waiting. He will drive with you to Croydon, whence you will both fly to Southampton to catch the Marquisita. My secretary will accompany you on board and will conduct you to the captain’s cabin. You will remain there until the boat is under way. For obvious reasons you will travel under a pseudonym, and I have prepared passports under the name “Christian Bennett”.’

  He paused, and Mr Campion peered at him round the corner of his handkerchief, which still covered half his face.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ve remembered to pack my woollens?’

  ‘Your usual tailor has supplied a complete tropical outfit, which is waiting for you on board the Marquisita.’

  ‘Splendid! Now all I’ve got to think about is a bottle of Mothersill, and a bag of nuts for the natives, I suppose.’

  ‘That facetiousness,’ said the personage. ‘I’ve heard about that. I find it very irritating myself.’

  The young man looked sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Still, we are but what we are, and I’m going definitely out of earshot. May I congratulate you on your intelligence system? You’ve found out quite a lot about me.’

  Savanake shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s all here,’ he said. ‘Your real name. I see your brother is still unmarried. You’ll come into the title some day, I suppose. Rather unpleasant, a thing like that hanging over you. I should imagine that the life of a country squire with a seat in the Peer’s Gallery would not appeal to you.’

  ‘Oh, there are compensations,’ ventured his visitor gently. ‘You get a lot of free theatre tickets and people send you samples. Not just a packet of razor blades, but big things: mangles, and patent mackintoshes, and thousands of British cigars.’

  Savanake went on impassively. ‘I know your successes, your association with Scotland Yard. Let me see, you are unmarried, unattached.’

  ‘Fancy-free,’ remarked Mr Campion mildly, ‘is the term I’ve always liked.’

  ‘You are thirty-two years old,’ the voice went on inexorably. ‘You are reputed to be comfortably, but not lavishly provided for. You are reckless, astute, and quite extraordinarily courageous.’

  ‘I take number nines in shoes,’ said the young man with the toothache with sudden irritation. ‘I always wash behind my ears, and in my mother’s opinion I have a very beautiful tenor voice. Suppose I decide not to play revolutions with you?’

  ‘I don’t think you would be so stupid.’ Once again the cold grey eyes peered into Mr Campion’s face. ‘Besides, a refusal does not come into the question. I only put this matter up to you as a proposition because it seemed more polite to do so. As it happens there is no alternative. After careful research into your record, habits, and personality I have chosen you.’

  Mr Campion rose to his feet. ‘What about my friends?’ he enquired. ‘If I desert them now how can I ever look again into those clean but honest faces?’

  ‘I hate that manner of yours,’ said the personage irritably. ‘Sit down. All that has been arranged. Must you hold that handkerchief up to your face?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Campion ungraciously. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me now that you’ve written a letter to Mr Randall, whom I’ve known for many years, and that all I have to do is to copy it out?’

  ‘Sign it,’ said Savanake. ‘It’s typewritten on a machine borrowed from your flat. I shall now read it to you.’

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘“Dear old thing,”’ he read solemnly, ‘“I am afraid this is going to come as a bit of a shock. But don’t think too hardly of me. The fact is, something has come along which has a spice of real danger in it, the one thing, you know, that I could never resist. I am leaving the childish affair upon which we have been engaged in your hands. Regards to the others. Yours ever . . .”’

  ‘Bert,’ suggested Mr Campion helpfully. ‘I say, I hate to hurt your feelings, but you can’t send that. Guffy would smell a rat immediately. The idea’s all right, but I’d better touch it up for you. You needn’t be afraid of codes and whatnot. Don’t post it until after I’m gone.’

  He took a fountain pen from his pocket, and began to scribble on a piece of typing paper lying on the desk. The note was very short, and as soon as he had finished it he threw it over. Savanake read the message aloud, no expression in his voice or face.

  ‘Dear old bird: I know when I’m beaten. Something more entertaining has turned up which will take me out of the country, and I’m jumping at it. Please accept my sympathy. I know of nothing more beastly than to find that a man one rather liked was a toot after all. Still, these things have an educational value, and anyhow I should hate you to forgive me. Yours, A.C.’

  Savanake nodded. ‘It is better,’ he said. ‘You will not, of course, be allowed to send wireless messages from the ship. Now I think that completes your interview. I will send for my secretary and you shall go.’

  ‘Just one moment,’ Mr Campion raised a pale, detaining hand. ‘I have a condition which seems very reasonable from my point of view. This firm runs a sideline in insurance, doesn’t it? I rather fancy I should like to insure my life for the sum of fifty thousand pounds with you for a short period. Can you arrange it?’

  The grey eyes regarded him sharply. ‘You may find it difficult to get yourself covered if you’re going on an errand like this,’ he said. ‘As soon as you get to your destination there will be a certain amount of danger. I thought that w
as what you wanted.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Campion brightly. ‘You misunderstand me. The period to which I referred was the time between the moment I leave this office and that at which the Marquisita sails.’

  For a moment the great face looked at him blankly, and then Brett Savanake put back his head and laughed until the tears rolled down his face.

  ‘I believe you have a sense of humour after all,’ he said. ‘I see it now. Very well, I’ll fix it up.’

  ‘I want it done properly,’ persisted Mr Campion. ‘In fact, I should like it put through by my own brokers. If you’ll lend me your telephone I’ll ring up my man and tell him to come round and see you immediately.’

  Savanake shook his head. ‘Crude stuff, my boy.’

  Mr Campion looked hurt. ‘If you have a telephone directory there,’ he said, ‘you can look up the firm yourself and get the number for me. I have a particular reason for wishing that someone whom I shall name will receive a substantial sum of money in event of my death. It’s also a hint to your secretary to be careful with me.’

  Savanake picked up the telephone directory. ‘What’s the firm?’

  ‘Poulter, Braid, and Simpson of Pall Mall. You’ve probably heard of them.’

  The personage seemed reassured. The firm was one of the largest of its kind in the world.

  ‘I do my business through a man named McCaffy. If you’d ask for him I should like to speak.’

  The speed with which the call went through moved Campion to comment, but the personage cut him short.

  ‘We’ve got no time to waste. Tell him to come round here within half an hour, and I’ll have the thing put through for you.’

  Mr Campion took the instrument. ‘Hallo, McCaffy,’ he said. ‘This is Campion speaking. I’m insuring my life. Yes, I’ve got Xenophon to take me for a short period. I’m afraid it’s urgent. Could you come round and fix it all up? I’ve got to get away, but I’ll sign everything and leave it for you. I’m sorry, old boy, but you must come immediately. Haste is essential. No, I didn’t say that you were inconsequential: I said that haste was essential. Come at once. They won’t trouble to go into that; I’m obviously perfectly healthy. Nothing faintly wrong with me except toothache at the moment. You know where it is; Xenophon House. Good-bye. Come along right away, there’s a good fellow.’

  He hung up the receiver. ‘Are you satisfied?’

  Savanake nodded. ‘That’s all right, so far.’

  A certain amount of delay might have been expected in the transaction of a piece of business of this magnitude, but a murmured word on the telephone to the efficient old lady in the next room and the necessary papers were instantly forthcoming and duly filled in.

  ‘The premium will be paid out of my twenty-five thousand,’ announced Mr Campion, striving to look businesslike. ‘And in event of my death I want the whole of this money to be paid to a private individual. That can be arranged, can’t it?’

  ‘Certainly. Can I have the name?’

  ‘Miss Amanda Fitton, The Mill, Pontisbright, Suffolk.’

  Savanake appeared surprised. ‘But you’ve only known this girl a week, haven’t you?’ he enquired. ‘What on earth do you want to give her fifty thousand pounds for?’

  ‘Need we go into it?’ objected Mr Campion wearily. ‘You seem to know such a lot about me. Find that out for yourself. Besides, it isn’t, I hope, a question of giving her fifty thousand pounds. I trust it won’t be necessary: don’t we all?’

  When at last the formalities were over, Savanake touched a bell upon his desk.

  ‘The time has come to wish you good-bye and good luck, Campion,’ he said. ‘You’ve taken the only intelligent course and I feel sure you’ll make a success of it. You’ll find Mr Parrott waiting for you in the outer office. You have your papers? You have your money? Very well, then, good-bye. As soon as you get on board I should advise you to study your instructions. They’re extraordinarily complete, and I think you’ll have no difficulty in following them. Good luck.’

  Mr Campion felt himself dismissed. In the outer office he found Mr Parrott making a very fair representation of the stage idea of a plain-clothes policeman, in his tightly-fitting blue coat and venerable bowler. The old lady was still at her desk, and she nodded affably to Campion as he appeared.

  ‘You’ve got a nice cabin on board the Marquisita,’ she said. ‘I’ve wired the stewardess to put plenty of blankets on your bed. It’s always cold when you start out.’

  Mr Parrott, very grave and completely devoid of his natural bonhomie in the rarefied atmosphere of the chief’s own room, took Campion by the arm.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, and led him out into the corridor. He seemed to revive a little as the door closed behind them, and he lowered his voice confidentially. ‘There’s a lift down the end of the passage,’ he said. ‘Save us going through the waiting-rooms. How’s the tooth, ol’ man?’

  ‘Awful,’ mumbled Mr Campion, whose handkerchief now completely covered his mouth. ‘Seems to be getting worse. I suppose I can’t stop at a dentist’s?’

  The request was so mumbled that it was only with great difficulty that Mr Parrott caught the sense. At the word ‘stop’, however, he shook his head violently.

  ‘Sorry, ol’ man,’ he said, ‘but it can’t be done. Against the boss’s orders. You’re to go straight to the aerodrome. Private plane, too.’

  A stifled squawk from Campion arrested them as they came to the lift room. The young man’s eyes were round and horrified behind the horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘If I catch cold in this tooth I shall pass out. You must get me a scarf or something.’

  Mr Parrott considered. At heart, it would appear, he was a kindly man, but it seemed that Mr Campion’s request was impossible.

  ‘I’d pay a fiver for an ordinary woollen scarf,’ muttered the prisoner, turning up his coat collar and bringing out yet another handkerchief to protect his swollen face. He spoke despondently, but he caught the gleam of interest in the other man’s eyes. The next moment, however, Mr Parrott was his virtuous, self-righteous self again.

  ‘Sorry, ol’ man,’ he began as they shot past the second floor, when Campion clutched his arm.

  ‘What would it cost me to call in at my flat, you watching me the whole time, of course, for a big coat and a bottle of toothache mixture? You can hold my hand for the entire outing, if you like.’

  Mr Parrott drew a deep breath. The he lowered his voice and spoke in a husky, confidential whisper.

  ‘Five hundred quid,’ he said.

  ‘Done,’ said Mr Campion unexpectedly. ‘Seventeen A, Bottle Street.’

  As the two men stumbled into the little flat over the police station in the famous cul-de-sac off Piccadilly, the drawn curtains and sheet-covered furniture proclaimed its owner’s long absence. Mr Parrott followed his charge into the bathroom, where Campion rummaged through a cabinet until he found the phial he sought. Mr Parrott asked to see it, and only the clearly-written label satisfied his curiosity.

  ‘Now the coat.’

  Campion trotted into the bedroom, Parrott at his heels.

  ‘Sorry if I’m a bit nosey, but orders is orders, you know.’

  His companion muttered something indistinctly about five hundred pounds, and Mr Parrott had the grace to look discomfited.

  ‘Every risk must be paid for,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Mr Campion without sympathy. ‘Now, my coat’s in this cupboard.’

  ‘Is your tooth getting worse? I can hardly hear what you’re saying.’ Mr Parrott came closer.

  Campion pointed to the door of a wall cupboard with his unoccupied hand.

  ‘Blob, blob,’ he said.

  His guard appeared to understand, for he nodded and stepped aside and the young man went in.

  ‘Half a moment, I can’t see very well,’ Campion’s voice was still very indistinct.

  Mr Parrott glanced at his watch. ‘Here, hurry,’ he demanded. ‘Here, Campion, where are y
ou?’

  His momentary alarm was dispelled, however, by the reappearance of a tall slender figure, who now wore a scarf wrapped over the lower half of his face to hold the handkerchief in place, and who carried an immensely thick overcoat in his arms. His hat he retained upon his head.

  Mr Parrott helped him into the coat, and together they groped their way out of the dismantled flat. When they were safely back in the car Mr Parrott’s charge thrust an envelope into his hand. The sandy man glanced at its contents and something like wonderment spread over his face.

  ‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re up to,’ he said. ‘But you’re the first man I’ve ever met – and I’ve met some rich men – to pay up so handsomely for a little thing like that.’ He lowered his voice still more confidentially and came closer. ‘I say, your name isn’t really Campion, is it?’ he muttered.

  ‘Blob, blob,’ said the figure at his side mysteriously, and Mr Parrott, translating this remark as a refusal of confidence, leant back sulkily in his corner as the car sped on towards the aerodrome.

  CHAPTER XII

  Visitation

  IT WAS OPENING time at the ‘Gauntlett’ on the evening of the day on which Mr Campion’s letter had arrived at the mill, and Eager-Wright and Farquharson hurried out of the bar as the Lagonda appeared in the yard, and Guffy climbed slowly out. This meeting had been arranged at the hasty conference that morning when it had been first decided that Mr Randall should go to town to ‘get the truth’ from Xenophon House. Amanda had been told nothing of the letter, and since there was Lugg also to be kept in the dark, the prince-bereft Court of Averna had decided to confer at the inn.

  The three young men went into the deserted saloon bar together. So far Guffy had said nothing, but his woebegone expression told them that their best hopes were dashed.

  ‘Well, I went there,’ he said at last, a faintly pugnacious expression creeping into his round, good-natured face, ‘and quite frankly I made a row. It’s not a thing one likes to do, but in this case there was no help for it. Finally, I got to see a man called Parrott – an awful bounder – but he seemed sincere, although naturally I didn’t feel like trusting him. He didn’t seem to be a fool, and he took a great deal of trouble to find out who I was before he’d give me any information. But finally, when I’d convinced him that it really was my business, he opened out a bit.’