Campion hesitated. ‘What about Norman?’ he suggested. ‘What do you want to do? There may be a certain amount of publicity, you see, and –’
He broke off. The old man was not listening. He sat slumped in his chair, his eyes fixed on the far distance. Presently he began to laugh. He laughed so much that the tears ran down his face and he grew purple and breathless.
‘Campion,’ he began weakly, when he had regained comparative coherence, ‘Campion, do you recall the end of that story?’
His guest frowned. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t. It’s gone completely. What was it?’
Mr Burns struggled for air.
‘The bumpkin didn’t pay,’ he gasped. ‘The bumpkin ate the meal and didn’t part with the cow. That is what I’ve done! This was the final try-out. I was parting with the cash tonight. I’ve got the cheque all ready made out here in my wallet. I haven’t parted and you’ve eaten his forty quid.’
They were still looking at each other when the young people returned. Prudence regarded them with mild astonishment.
‘You two seem to be making a lot of noise,’ she remarked. ‘What are you talking about?’
Mr Burns winked at his companion.
‘What would you call it? The Hat Trick?’ he suggested.
Campion hesitated. ‘Hardly cricket,’ he said.
4
The Question Mark
WHEN MISS CHLOE Pleyell became engaged to Sir Matthew Pearing, K.C., Mr Albert Campion crossed her name off his private list entitled ‘Elegant Young Persons Whom I Ought to Take to Lunch’ and wrote it in neatly at the foot of his ‘People I Must Send Christmas Cards to’ folder.
He made the exchange with a smile that was only partially regretful. There had been a time when Miss Pleyell had seemed to him to have a light-heartedness all her own, but once or twice lately it had occurred to him somewhat forcefully that light-headedness might be a more accurate description. Without the slightest trace of malice, therefore, he wished Sir Matthew, who was a monument of humourless pomposity, joy of his choice.
He was still wishing him every happiness, albeit a trifle dubiously, as he stood in the big old-fashioned office at the back of Julius Florian’s Bond Street shop and watched the astute old silversmith persuading Chloe to decide whether Mr Campion should signify his goodwill on her marriage with the Adam candlesticks or the baroque epergne.
Chloe was in form. She sat on the edge of the walnut desk, her cocoa ermine coat slipping off her shoulders and her small yellow head on one side. Her eyes were narrowed, their vivid blue intensified by the tremendous mental effort involved in the choice.
Mr Florian appeared to find her wholly charming. He stood before her, his round dark face alight with an interest all the more remarkable since she had been in the shop for the best part of three-quarters of an hour already.
‘The epergne is exquisitely fashionable now,’ murmured Chloe, ‘and I adore it. It’s so magnificently silly. But the Adam things will be there always, won’t they, like a family butler or something.’
Old Florian laughed.
‘So truly put,’ he observed, with a little nod to Mr Campion. ‘Which shall it be, then? The fashion of the day or the pride of a lifetime?’
‘I’ll have the epergne, Mr Florian. And you’re an angel to give it me, Albert. Every time I look across it at poor Matthew sitting at the other end of the table I shall think of you.’
‘That’ll be nice for both of us,’ said Mr Campion cheerfully.
Chloe slid off the desk and drifted to the side-table where the epergne stood holding out its little silver baskets on slender curling arms. The silversmith trotted after her.
‘A lovely thing,’ he said. ‘Fine early George the Third, eight sweetmeat baskets hand-pierced and chased, gadroon edges, ball feet. I can tell you its entire history. It was made for Lord Perowne and remained in that family for seventy-two years, when it was purchased by a Mr Andrew Chappell, who left it to his daughter who lived at Brighton and –’
Chloe’s laugh interrupted him.
‘How sweet!’ she said. ‘Like a dog. Having a pedigree, I mean. I shall call it Rover. All my furniture’s going to have names, Albert.’
‘When one buys a fine piece of silver one usually likes to know something of its history,’ said Mr Florian stiffly.
Miss Pleyell’s brain struggled with the information and came out on top.
‘Oh, of course, in case it’s stolen,’ she said brightly. ‘I never thought of that. How fascinating! Tell me, do you deal much in stolen stuff, Mr Florian? By accident, I mean,’ she added belatedly, as the small man’s face grew slowly red and then more slowly purple.
Campion hurried to the rescue.
‘The police lists protect you from all disasters of that sort, don’t they, Mr Florian?’
The silversmith regained his poise and even his smile.
‘Ah yes,’ he said graciously. ‘The police lists are very interesting. I’ll show you one.’
He touched a bell on his desk and went on talking in his slow, slightly affected voice.
‘Whenever there has been a robbery the police circularise the trade with a list of the missing valuables. Then, if the thief or his agents are foolish enough to attempt to dispose of the haul to any reputable firm, they can be – ah – instantly apprehended.’
‘How lovely!’ said Chloe, with such emphasis that Campion glanced at her sharply, only to find her gazing at Mr Florian with an eager interest in her china-blue eyes which was utterly disarming.
The silversmith thawed visibly, and by the time his clerk reappeared with the folder he was beaming.
‘I don’t show these to everybody,’ he said archly, his black eyes twinkling at Chloe. ‘Here’s a list of things taken from a mansion in Surrey. And here’s another very curious thing. These are the valuables taken from the Hewes-Bellewe house in Manchester Square. No doubt you read of the burglary? I found it particularly interesting because I’m familiar with Lady Hewes-Bellewe’s collection of silver. Most of these pieces have been through my hands from time to time for special cleaning and minor repairs.’
‘Fascinating,’ murmured Chloe, glancing down a column of technicalities with what was only too obviously an uncomprehending eye. ‘What’s an early silver muffineer with BG, LG?’
‘A sugar sifter with a blue glass lining,’ Mr Florian seemed delighted to explain, and it occurred to Mr Campion that a lot of beauty went a remarkably long way. ‘That’s a very interesting piece,’ the silversmith went on. ‘I had it here once when we gave a little loan exhibition of rare silver. It had a charming design of ivy leaves, hand-pierced, and on one of the leaves a little putto in a boat has been engraved. Engraving with hand-piercing is comparatively rare, and I told Lady Hewes-Bellewe that in my opinion the putto must have been the brilliant work of some eighteenth-century amateur. What a tragedy to think it’s gone!’
‘Frightful,’ agreed Chloe, blank but game. ‘But it all depends on how you look at it, doesn’t it?’
Campion felt it time to be helpful.
‘I remember that burglary,’ he remarked. ‘That was the Question Mark’s last escapade, wasn’t it? The fellow the newspapers call the “Crooked Crook”.’
‘That’s the man.’ The suave Mr Florian was almost excited. ‘The police can’t put their hands on him, and I understand they think he’s responsible for at least half a dozen London burglaries. I’m particularly interested in him because he has a mania for fine silver. He must be quite a connoisseur in his way. I can’t bring myself to believe he has that beautiful stuff melted down. It must go abroad.’
Chloe smiled at the old man with ingratiating earnestness.
‘This is wonderful,’ she smiled. ‘I feel I’m learning trade secrets. Why is he called the Question Mark and the Crooked Crook?’
‘Because he walks with a stoop, my child,’ explained Mr Campion. ‘He’s been seen once or twice, a thin bent figure lurking in dark
passageways and on unlighted staircases. Frighten yourself to death with that vision, my poppet, and come along.’
‘He’s a cripple? How devastating!’ Miss Pleyell was thinking rapidly, and the unaccustomed exercise brought most becoming spots of colour to her cheek-bones. ‘Tell me, how does he get up drainpipes and do all the energetic things burglars do?’
Florian smiled, and Campion saw with relief that he had evidently decided to get into line with the rest of Chloe’s acquaintances and consider her an adorable half-wit.
‘Ah, but he’s not a real crookback,’ he said, lowering his voice as though he were speaking to a child. ‘He was nearly captured on one occasion. A servant girl caught sight of him from an upper window and gave the alarm. He took to his heels and the woman told the police that he straightened up as he ran.’
‘How very peculiar,’ commented Chloe unexpectedly.
‘Not really.’ Florian’s tone was still gently humorous. ‘Most crooks have their little foibles, their little trade marks. It’s a tradition. There’s one man who always cuts a heart-shaped hole in the pane of a downstairs window and lifts the piece out carefully with a small rubber sucker so that he can get to the latch. There’s another who disguises himself as a milkman before he cracks a crib. This fellow the Question Mark probably looks quite normal in private life, but the police hunted for a long time for someone with a pronounced stoop.’
‘Really?’ said Chloe, her breathlessness a little overdone.
‘Oh, yes. Dear me, yes. Crooks are extraordinary people. Ask Mr Campion. He’s the expert. Why, I remember when I was a young man first in business there was a thief who had our whole trade by the ears. We dreaded him. And he used to do his work in a guardsman’s uniform, red tunic, moustachios, a swagger-cane, and all.’
Campion looked up with interest.
‘That’s a prize effort,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
Florian shook his head.
‘Ah well, it’s thirty-five years ago at least. But he existed, believe me. We were all very much relieved when he was caught and gaoled. I don’t know what happened to him when he was released. Some of your older friends at Scotland Yard might remember him. They called him the Shiner. Well, Miss Pleyell, you don’t want to hear any more of my reminiscences, I’m sure. I’ll have the epergne dispatched to you immediately.’
Mr Campion carried Miss Pleyell away.
‘It’s sweet of you,’ she said, thoughtfully eyeing him across the little table in the crowded but fashionable lounge where she had elected to take tea. ‘I shall treasure Rover always.’
‘But not next to your heart,’ murmured her host absently. His thoughts had wandered to a curious little notion which had come to him during the silversmith’s lecture on the crooks of the past. It was an odd little idea, and presently he put it out of his mind as ridiculous.
He grinned at Chloe.
‘I hope you didn’t let old Florian bore you?’ he said.
‘Bore me? My dear, you know I’m never bored.’ Chloe’s eyes were gently reproachful. ‘Besides, the funny little creature was quite amusing. As it happens, I’m frightfully interested in crime just now.’
‘Oh?’ Mr Campion’s eyebrows rose apprehensively.
Chloe’s smile was candid and confiding.
‘Albert, my pet,’ she said, ‘I want your advice. I don’t know if I’ve been frightfully clever or terribly childish.’
Her host resisted the impulse to cover his eyes with his hand.
‘Criminal?’ he inquired casually.
‘Oh no!’ Chloe was amused. ‘Quite the reverse. I’m just employing a detective, that’s all. It’s really to oblige Gracie. Have you seen Gracie, my maid? She’s the girl with little black eyes. She has Bulgarian blood, or something. She sews exquisitely. I couldn’t lose her. She’s invaluable.’
Her escort blinked.
‘Perhaps I’m not quite right in the head,’ he remarked affably. ‘I don’t get the hang of this at all. Is the detective keeping an eye on Gracie to see she doesn’t wander off into the blue?’
‘No, my dear.’ Chloe was patient. ‘The detective is engaged to Gracie – for the time being. It won’t last. It never does. She’s so temperamental. It’s her Bulgarian blood. I’m simply giving him a job so she won’t marry him and start a shop or something frightful. You don’t follow me, do you? I’ll explain it all most carefully because I’d like your advice. I think I’ve been rather bright.’
The tall man in the horn-rimmed spectacles sighed. ‘Put the worst in words of one syllable,’ he invited.
Chloe leant forward, her expression childlike and serious. ‘First of all you must realise about Gracie,’ she said earnestly. ‘If I were cynical I should say that Gracie was the most important person in my life. Without Gracie my hair, my style, my clothes, my entire personality would simply go to pieces. Do you understand now?’
Mr Campion thought she looked very charming and he said so. Chloe looked almost worried.
‘Yes, well, there you are,’ she said. ‘I’m not a fool. I give Gracie full credit for everything. I’m simply hopeless alone and I know it. I simply can’t afford to lose her. Unfortunately she’s frightfully susceptible. It’s her Middle-European blood. It’s always coming out. She’s had nine serious love affairs in the past two years.’
‘Dear me!’ said Mr Campion. ‘And now she’s in love with a detective?’
‘Ah yes. But he wasn’t a detective to begin with,’ explained Miss Pleyell, and went on airily: ‘He was out of work, you see, and Gracie was passionately sorry for him. She gets all worked up on these occasions, urgently maternal and all that.’
‘Her Bulgarian blood, no doubt,’ put in Mr Campion soberly.
‘Yes. She can’t help it. She wanted to marry Herbert immediately and invest her savings in a shop so that she could settle down and make something of him. What are you thinking, Albert?’
‘Thank heaven she can sew,’ murmured her escort piously. ‘When did you turn Herbert into a detective?’
‘Oh, I didn’t do it. It was entirely his idea. You see, when Gracie first told me about him I begged her to wait. A man must have the kind of work he really loves, mustn’t he? Even I know that. I told her that she simply must make Herbert find out what his vocation was and then I’d see he got into it. Then we could both wait and see how it worked.’
She smiled brightly across the table.
‘And Herbert thought he felt the call to become a “tee”?’ Mr Campion’s lean face split into a smile of pure amusement. ‘How charming! What did you do? Bribe a private agency to take him on?’
‘No, I didn’t. I never thought of that. No, I simply employed him myself at two pounds a week. Gracie usually takes about six weeks to get over a passion, and I thought it would be the most inexpensive way of doing it.’
Her companion looked at her almost affectionately.
‘You have a sort of flair, my child, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘He just loafs around until Gracie’s Bulgarian eye lights on another victim, I suppose?’
Chloe hesitated and evidently decided to make a clean breast.
‘Well, no,’ she said at last. ‘Unfortunately he doesn’t. In a way it’s rather awkward. Herbert’s devastatingly conscientious. He will work. He just insists on detecting all over the place. I put him on to Mother for the first week, but he found out that her cook was taking bribes from the tradesmen and had the idiocy to want the woman dismissed. Mother was furious, of course, as cooks are so scarce. I had a frightful time with the three of them. Now I’ve been rather clever, I think. I’ve told Herbert to keep an eye on Matthew. Matthew is the complete model of rectitude. He never forgets his dignity for an instant. I think Matthew will exhaust Herbert, don’t you?’
Mr Campion took off his spectacles, a sign with him of deep emotion. In his mind’s eye he saw again the pompous young K.C., so correct and conventional that even his mother did not dare to use any diminutive of his Christian name.<
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‘You astound me,’ he said simply. ‘You have my undying respect. How did you get Sir Matthew to stand for it?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said at last. ‘Herbert is very discreet, so I didn’t think it necessary to mention it to Matthew at all. Do you think that was unwise?’
Mr Campion’s face grew blank. ‘My good girl,’ he said flatly. ‘My good insane girl.’
Miss Pleyell coloured and glanced down at her plate.
‘It did just occur to me once or twice that it might not be such a good idea as it looked. That’s why I mentioned it to you,’ she murmured defensively. ‘Matthew’s ridiculously stiff in some ways, isn’t he?’
Since he did not trust himself to speak, her host made no comment. She forced a smile.
‘Still, he’ll never notice Herbert,’ she said. ‘Herbert’s such an ordinary, nondescript little man. Matthew never notices unimportant people.’
Mr Campion took himself in hand, and when he spoke his voice was almost gentle. He had a gift for lucidity when he chose to employ it, and his short lecture on the gentle art of blackmail and its perpetrators was clear and to the point. He also touched upon the more ethical side of the arrangement, with a direct reference to the dictates of good taste. His feelings carried him away, and he only came to an abrupt pause when Miss Pleyell’s small face began to pucker dangerously.
‘Oh, how awful!’ she said, waving away his belated apology. ‘I never looked at it like that. It never entered my head that Herbert might be dishonest. I do see it’s dangerous and rather beastly; I do now. But before, it never occurred to me. I was simply thinking of not losing Gracie. What shall I do? Anything except tell Matthew. I daren’t do that. I just daren’t. He wouldn’t see it in my way at all and I am terribly fond of him. What shall I do?’
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