Traitor's Purse

by Margery Allingham

  The young man’s expression did not change and Campion shook hands and turned away. A sixth sense, or rather that mysterious body-mind which so often seems to take charge when one’s normal brain goes back on one, was looking after him. His reserve and non-committal tone were far more impressive than any show of appreciation could ever have been and young Butcher retired to his underground laboratory wondering if the Authorities really put quite the trust in him which their behaviour so far had caused him to suspect.

  It was Campion who led Aubrey out into the sun again. He had listened to a quantity of technical detail from Butcher, all of which might be important to an enemy but was not so to him. Whatever Butcher knew was also known already, presumably, by the War Office and was therefore none of Campion’s business. What he must be looking for was something which was hitherto unknown to them. Fifteen? He must keep his mind clear and hang on to that. Fifteen: that was still his only definite clue. Fifteen, and the people who knew what it meant. Butcher was evidently not one of them, but there was someone else who was.

  As he raised his eyes and looked down the narrow concrete path which ran like a chalk-line across the green turf, he saw the man he was thinking about. He appeared so quickly that it was difficult to say whether thought or vision came first. His jaunty roundness was recognizable at a tremendous distance and he came bouncing along towards them without haste.

  X

  ‘THAT FELLOW PYNE,’ said Campion.

  ‘Really?’ Aubrey’s distinctive face clouded. ‘What on earth is the man doing wandering round here alone like this? They’ve let him in to look for me, I suppose. They mustn’t do that, as they very well know. He’s talked his way in, you see. How extraordinary these fellows are! I’m quite prepared to like him, but he mustn’t make himself a nuisance. I loathe having to tell a man to clear out.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Pyne? Oh, rather an interesting bird. Remarkably intelligent in his own way. Probably dishonest. Works like a fiend.’ Lee had dropped into his objective mood again. His remarks were quite free from affectation and he spoke with the judicial simplicity of an admittedly superior being. ‘He’s evacuated his office down here. It’s an amusing little organization and he makes a very good thing out of it. He calls it Surveys Limited. I suppose you’ve heard of it?’

  ‘It’s faintly familiar,’ said Campion not untruthfully. ‘What do they do? Arrange one’s life for one?’

  Lee laughed. ‘Only in part,’ he murmured. ‘They’re an advice and information bureau. If you want to build a factory or start up a business in an unknown locality they’ll get out all the dope on the place for you. They’re remarkably thorough. Apart from the usual stuff, they tabulate the most intimate details, including some very shrewd work on public opinion and estimates of local wealth. In fact they’ll sound every possible depth for you in strictest confidence. Pyne told me once that he had ten thousand agents all over England. That probably means that he’s employed about half that number at some time or other during his career. I imagine any man to whom he’s ever given five bob for personal views on local conditions is included in the aggregate, but still, to do him justice, he does seem to get the commissions. Mildly entertaining?’

  Campion nodded briefly. He was not in the condition to be mildly entertained and Pyne was almost upon them.

  By morning light he did not look quite so amiable and easy-going. At first Campion was inclined to blame his own unreliable observation on the night before for the change, but as soon as the newcomer began to speak he was not so sure. Pyne was still hearty, but now there was suppressed anxiety and a touch of antagonism there as well. He greeted them without preliminaries.

  ‘Any developments?’ he demanded as soon as he was within speaking distance.

  ‘In which direction?’ Campion was relieved to find that his own powers of controlling both his face and voice were considerable.

  ‘Well, what about last night? What about Anscombe?’ Pyne was keyed up and his round eyes were as shifty and inquisitive as a sparrow’s.

  A thin trickle of fear dribbled down Campion’s spine. Until that moment he had entirely forgotten the incident. The enormity of the omission appalled him. Anscombe and his disturbing manner of dying had gone clean out of his mind. Good God! If he had forgotten that, what else had he overlooked? To his relief Lee looked faintly shamefaced also.

  ‘Oh Lord! Miss Anscombe!’ he said. ‘I must go down to see her. It’s early yet, but what a merciful chance you reminded me. Once one gets behind this wall one passes into another world, you know. Don’t you feel it, Campion? The mind simply settles down to consider ideas and their technical development. Poor old Anscombe. I knew him reasonably well, but in here and at the moment he’s absolutely remote.’

  Pyne wiped his forehead. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said drily. ‘I’ve been thinking of him all night. I don’t like the look of that death. If the police are satisfied, of course, it’s nothing to do with me, but I rather wondered if they were?’

  There was a question in his last remark and Campion, who recollected just in time that no one present knew of his late night meeting with Hutch, ignored it. Lee Aubrey was less cautious.

  ‘Anscombe was of the type who never commit suicide,’ he said didactically.

  Pyne glanced at Campion.

  ‘Murder was the thought in my mind,’ he said.

  Lee coughed and moved on up the path. He was offended. His mouth was pursed and he looked shocked.

  ‘My dear chap,’ he protested, giving the reproach just sufficient reproach to make it also a rebuke, ‘hysteria at this time in the morning is inexcusable. And there’s one other thing while I think of it, Pyne. You really must not come in here unless I bring you personally. It’s simply not allowed. The British Government has put its foot down on the subject. I don’t want to know how you got yourself admitted, because I don’t want to have to report the poor beast on the gate, but for heaven’s sake don’t do it again.’

  It was as near a schoolmaster’s scolding as Campion had ever heard administered to a grown man. Pyne gave no sign that he had heard. He remained round, pink, and dangerously suspicious.

  ‘There’s been a man-hunt all over this district for the last twelve hours at least,’ he remarked presently as they walked on. ‘A fellow wanted by the police escaped from St Jude’s Hospital in Coachingford last night. He pinched an old car, abandoned it at the water-splash on the lower Bridge road, and disappeared. They’re still searching for him. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?’

  Lee burst out laughing, an almost feminine spitefulness in his amusement.

  ‘Oh, come,’ he said, ‘that’s abominable thinking. Some wretched man is escaping from the police and therefore it’s only natural to suppose that the first thing he does is to sneak into a garden and murder old Anscombe, who happened to be there. It’s childish, Pyne. It won’t wash. You’re upset, my dear chap. That obtrusive stomach of yours is out of order.’

  The little fat man jerked in his belly, but his eyes did not lose their alarming shrewdness.

  ‘I was thinking, Campion,’ he began, ‘you must have come over from Coachingford about the right time. You didn’t see anything of this man, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Campion. His tone was mild, he noticed.

  Lee sighed with exasperation. ‘My good Pyne,’ he said, taking the other man’s arm with a weary familiarity which had in it the very essence of condescension, ‘you’re making an unholy ass of yourself, you know.’

  ‘I don’t believe I am, Aubrey.’

  ‘Then you must take my word for it.’ Lee was smiling dangerously. ‘Campion is personally known to me and I give you my word that (a) he gave no lift to any escaping suspect, and (b) that suspect did not reward him by bumping off poor old Anscombe in his own front yard. Moreover, that suggestion is ridiculous, it’s absurd, it’s mad, it’s nuts. Forget it, and let the police do their own chores.’

  Pyne allowed himself to be led out of the
Institute gates and across the turf towards the house. If Aubrey was offending him he did not show it.

  ‘I don’t know Mr Campion well. If you do, I’ve nothing more to say,’ he remarked at last in a perfectly unruffled tone. ‘But have you read the description of the man the police are looking for?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I don’t think I want to particularly.’

  ‘I found it interesting.’ Pyne’s placid obstinacy was in-suppressible. ‘The man they want is thirty-five years old and six-foot-two high. He has a pale face and sleek blond hair, and his chief characteristics are that he is very thin and yet powerful.’ He paused and when no one spoke added ingenuously: ‘When last seen he was wearing fireman’s oilskins.’

  Lee crowed with delight. ‘And a brass helmet as well?’ he demanded. ‘This is lovely. Pyne, my poor friend, you’re giving me an enormous amount of innocent pleasure. Do go on; I wouldn’t stop you for the world.’

  The plump man turned to Campion.

  ‘What do you think?’ he enquired.

  Campion appeared to give the matter serious consideration. They had reached the ridge of high ground and were now sauntering down towards the poplar trees. He had his hands in his pockets and they were clenched so that the nails dug into his palms. His heart was thudding in his side and before the dark curtain hung across his mind his conscious thoughts were as chaotic and useless as those behind it were lost. He was dithering, and that fact frightened him far more than this dangerous little man’s questions.

  ‘What name would you put to that description?’ Pyne persisted.

  He was waiting for an answer. He was waiting for an answer. He was waiting for an answer. A minute had gone by, a whole minute. A minute; perhaps another minute. Campion could not think. Good God, he could not think. This was horrible, terrifying. He could not think. The machinery for thinking had broken down. He was helpless, lost, at the mercy of this dreadful little creature with the cruel, predatory eyes of a bird.

  What name? What name? What name?

  ‘Almost any, I should say,’ he murmured, unaware that he sounded more bored than anything else. ‘John Smith, Albert Campion, Weaver Bea.’

  There was complete silence. It lasted so long that he was able to drag himself out of his floundering panic and glance round before anyone spoke.

  Lee Aubrey was mooching along with his shoulders hunched under his sleek, almost foppishly cut jacket. He was clearly embarrassed by the personal turn which the conversation had taken. The ridiculous name which had slipped out so dangerously had not registered upon him.

  But with Pyne it was very different. For the first time his shining composure was destroyed. He had changed colour and his eyes were no longer merely suspicious. He turned his head and looked the other man full in the face.

  ‘I’ve obviously made an idiotic mistake, Mr Campion,’ he said. ‘That scene last night unnerved me a bit, I expect. You and I ought to have a talk some time. Why don’t you come down to my office? I think you’d be interested in it. We might have a spot of lunch together in the town.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ Lee cut in before Campion could reply. He spoke with the hearty relief of the host who thinks he sees a way of amusing the temporarily unwanted guest. ‘That business of his will entertain you, Campion. I found it fascinating. Pyne’s a most amusing beggar when he’s not being melodramatic or playing detectives.’

  Campion was silent. He had no illusions whatever about Pyne. The man was on the right track and knew it. It was a tight corner. Delay at this point was the one thing he knew would be fatal, and delay there certainly would be once the County Police discovered in him the particular man for whom they were scouring the country. Headquarters might back him up to the hilt, but there would have to be explanations first and explanations would lead to the discovery of his condition, whatever else they disclosed. Whatever else? That question was too alarming even to consider and he shrank from it.

  With what was obviously a habit with him in difficult moments he looked around for Amanda. To his relief he actually saw her, turning the corner of the house. He was not surprised. That was the miraculous part of Amanda; she always seemed to materialize at the right moment. It was as though they were partners in some long practised game, with years of experience and cooperation behind them. She hailed him and with a muttered word of excuse he hurried over to meet her. She spoke quietly as he came up.

  ‘I say, the Superintendent’s here. He wants to see you alone, apart from Lee, I mean. He won’t come in, and he’s waiting round by the side door. Would you go to him?’

  Would he! The idea of the lanky Hutch as a rescuing angel, robe, feathers, and all, did not seem in the least incongruous at that moment.

  ‘Oh, bless you,’ he said so fervently that her brown eyes widened.

  ‘Sticky?’ she enquired under her breath.

  ‘Not so hot, anyway,’ he admitted. ‘Stay with them, will you, my darling? Don’t let Pyne open his heart to Aubrey.’

  He saw the faint flicker of astonishment in her expression and was puzzled by it until he realized that it was the heartfelt, grateful endearment which had surprised her. That was a revelation which brought him up with a jerk and his sudden sense of desolation was not lightened by the conviction that he deserved it.

  He saw Hutch as soon as he turned into the yard. The plain-clothes man was sitting on the running-board of a huge old Buick and the sun shone down on the unexpectedly resplendent colours of his tweed suit. He rose as soon as Campion appeared and sauntered forward.

  ‘Hallo!’ Campion’s greeting was unusually hearty. Here at least was an ally, however blindfold.

  ‘Good morning.’ A guarded quality in the policeman’s tone struck a warning note which set every nerve in his body on edge. ‘Can I have a few words with you, sir?’

  ‘Of course. Why not? Carry on.’ Campion felt he was talking too much and could not stop himself. ‘What’s the excitement?’

  ‘No excitement, sir.’ Hutch eyed him curiously. ‘I’d just like you to take a look at this, if you will. We don’t take any notice of these things as a rule, naturally, but in this case there are certain circumstances which made me think I’d bring it round to you.’

  Campion glanced at the sheet of paper which was thrust into his hand. It bore a short typewritten message.

  ‘DEAR SUPERINTENDENT, –

  ‘When the Home Office issued you with instructions concerning Albert Campion, did they by any chance also send you a photograph? That’s all. Think it over.’

  There was no signature and it was undated. Campion read it through twice. It was Pyne, of course; probably written the night before after his own idiotic slip when he had fallen into the little trap concerning their previous association in the U.S.

  The inference was obvious. Pyne saw there was something fishy about him and suspected him of impersonation, impersonation of Albert Campion. That was pretty good, pretty funny. He could soon put a stop to that, anyway.

  Could he, though? The new danger opened out like a morass in front of him.

  He gave back the sheet of paper with a steady hand, but his head was hurting intolerably and he could feel the sweat on his forehead.

  ‘Well?’ he enquired.

  Hutch produced another paper. This proved to be a police chit which detailed in the usual unenlightened phrases the chief physical characteristics of the man who had escaped in fireman’s oilskins from St Jude’s Hospital, Coachingford.

  Campion read them aloud.

  ‘Well,’ he said again. The throbbing in the crown of his skull had turned to shooting pains of excruciating violence and the outlines of the Superintendent’s jaunty figure were shimmering as though in a heat haze.

  Hutch looked up. His eyes were searching and he took a long time to make up his mind to speak.

  ‘I haven’t got a warrant, of course,’ he said at last, ‘so I’d like to ask a favour of you. May I go over your room, sir, just to satisfy my own curiosity? I – well, to put it fra
nkly, sir, when I was getting you to bed last night I noticed the whole room reeked of oilskins. I can’t get that out of my head.’

  Campion laughed aloud. It was not a very convincing sound, but at least it was spontaneous.

  ‘Search with pleasure,’ he said. ‘Search the whole house. I’ll square you with Aubrey. How long have you been in the police, Hutch?’

  ‘Twenty-eight years and two months, sir.’

  ‘Have you?’ The implied criticism, as from a superior officer, had its effect. Campion felt rather than saw the man waver. He laughed again and with better humour. ‘You trot along and set your mind at rest,’ he said. ‘If you find the uniform bring it to me. I’d like to see myself in fireman’s rig. If it shouldn’t be in the bedroom, well, try the rest of the house and then the grounds.’

  Hutch shrugged. He was verging on the sheepish. He took a step towards the side door, changed his mind, and came back.

  ‘Just answer me two questions, sir. Then I’ll apologize.’

  This was more dangerous. Campion kept his tone light.

  ‘Anything you like, Superintendent.’

  ‘What is the name of the C.D.I. in Room 49 at Headquarters?’

  ‘Yeo.’ It was a shot in the dark but he had not hesitated. The name had been dragged up out of his mind as he forced himself to hear again the small voice on the telephone the night before.

  Hutch stood looking at him oddly. There was no way of telling whether he had succeeded or failed.

  ‘And the second?’ Campion took the bold line. To pause, he felt, might be fatal, and whatever happened he could not be held up now.

  Hutch moistened his lips and lowered his voice.

  ‘What’s your own S.S. number, sir?’

  Campion smiled. He had no idea, no idea in the world.

  ‘At the moment I rather fancy it’s fifteen,’ he said and laughed.

  He saw he had blundered badly. He saw the consternation slowly dawning on Hutch’s pleasant face as the enormity of the situation dawned on him, since it included his own inexcusable deception and the incredible indiscretion he had committed in taking an unauthorized person on the visit of the evening before. Campion saw the next move, imminent and inescapable. He saw himself detained, held up helpless while the vital hours raced by. His tormented mind shuttered. It was as though the dark curtain became for a moment an open venetian-blind. It rattled, flickered, and was shut again.