She looked so small and pretty and woebegone that Mr Campion felt a brute.
‘Call the watch-dog off,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Go round to Paul Fenner of the Efficiency Detective Bureau and tell him from me to give Herbert a temporary job at your expense. Then keep quiet. Don’t tell the story to anybody.’
‘No, of course I won’t.’ Miss Pleyell’s relief was charming. ‘You’re a darling,’ she said. ‘A perfect dear. I’m terribly grateful to you, Albert. You’re so frightfully clever. I’ll do exactly what you say, and then everything will be all right, won’t it? You don’t think I’m a fool, though, do you? I couldn’t bear that.’
Mr Campion surveyed her with great tolerance.
‘I think you’re fantastic, my child,’ he said gravely.
He made a different and more forceful remark about her the following morning when her telephone call coincided with his early tea. She was tearfully incoherent at the other end of the wire.
‘It’s happened.’ Her whisper reached him, shaken with tragic intensity. ‘It’s Herbert. What shall I do?’
‘Herbert?’ Mr Campion shook the sleep out of his head and strove to collect his thoughts. ‘Oh yes, Herbert the amateur detective. What’s he done?’
‘Can I tell you on the ’phone?’
‘Well, I hope so.’ Mr Campion raised his eyebrows at the instrument. ‘What’s he doing? Demanding money?’
‘Oh no … no … worse than that. Albert, he’s found out something about Matthew and he wants to go to the police. Herbert says he’s got proof that Matthew’s a crook.’
There was a long silence from Mr Campion’s end of the wire.
‘Can you hear me? What shall I do?’
Campion held the receiver an inch or so from his ear.
‘Yes, I can hear,’ he said dryly. ‘My voice had left me, that was all. Well, my dear young friend, your course is clear. Tell Master Herbert to go to the police and make his accusation by all means. When he changes his tone and you get down to the vital question of the fiver he has in mind, threaten to send for the police.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Chloe sounded partially convinced. ‘Then you think Herbert’s simply lying about Matthew being a mysterious thief and all that? He’s very convincing. Are you there, Albert? Listen, you don’t think it’s true? What’s the matter with your voice? Why does it keep going like this?’
‘It’s a form of nervous paralysis,’ explained Mr Campion gently, and rang off.
While he was dressing he thought of Chloe and shook his head over her. She was beautiful and she was charming and at heart a dear, he reflected, but unfortunately hardly safe out. He hoped most devoutly for her sake that the dignified Sir Matthew would never hear of Gracie’s Herbert.
A morning at the Leicester Galleries and a protracted luncheon kept him away from the Piccadilly flat until half-way through the afternoon. He let himself in with his key and was walking down the corridor to his study when an unexpected vision on the floor of his sitting-room caught his eye through the half-open doorway. He paused and stared at it.
Lying on the carpet was a battered portmanteau, while round it, spread out in dazzling array, was as choice a collection of unfamiliar silver as ever he had seen. Blinking a little, he pushed open the door and glanced round. A sturdy, respectable figure with a round face and a permanently injured expression rose stiffly from an upright chair.
Campion surveyed the man in astonishment. He was a perfect stranger and was neatly dressed in nondescript tweeds.
‘Mr Campion?’ he demanded in a brisk, high-pitched voice. ‘Your man said I could wait ’ere for you.’
‘Oh yes, quite.’ Campion’s gaze wandered back to the array upon the floor. ‘You’ve brought your – luggage, I see.’
‘My name’s Boot,’ said the visitor, ignoring the remark. ‘Miss Pleyell said I was to see you before I went to the police. Come what might I was to see you first. That’s what she said.’
A great light dawned slowly upon Mr Campion.
‘You’re not Herbert, by any chance?’ he inquired.
Mr Boot blushed.
‘My young lady calls me Herbert,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘I’m a private inquiry agent in the employ of Miss Chloe Pleyell. She said she’d mentioned me to you. Is that right?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, she did. She did indeed. Won’t you sit down?’
Mr Campion’s pale eyes were narrowed behind his spectacles. Gracie’s young man was not at all the type he had expected.
‘I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind,’ said Herbert without impoliteness. ‘Time’s short. I’ve been here since noon. Notice anything about this lot?’
Mr Campion ran a thoughtful eye over the glistening treasure trove at his feet. One item in particular caught his special attention. It was a large Georgian sugar sifter lined with blue glass and decorated with a design of hand-pierced ivy leaves. The centre of one leaf was exquisitely engraved with the tiny likeness of a cupid in a boat.
‘Dear me!’ said Mr Campion.
‘Seen the police lists lately, sir?’ Herbert inquired, his aggrieved expression deepening. ‘I have. Do you know what this collection represents? It’s the proceeds of a robbery committed on the night of the fifteenth at a house in Manchester Square. Hewes-Bellewe was the family’s name. In the papers the police were said to be looking for a person they’re pleased to call the Question Mark. Now you see, sir, whatever you or Miss Pleyell may say, I must go to the police with this stuff. I must. It’s my duty and, in a way, my privilege. I owe it to myself. I’ve found it. I’ve got to report it. I know there’s a dangerous criminal masquerading as a gentleman of title, and although I’m very sorry for Miss Pleyell, I’m in a cleft stick. I’ve got to do my duty.’
Mr Campion felt a little giddy.
‘Look here, Herbert,’ he said at last, ‘let me get this clear. You’re not thinking of accusing Sir Matthew Pearing of being the Question Mark, are you?’
Herbert’s bright brown eyes became belligerent.
‘I’m telling the police all I know,’ he said. ‘Since he done it he ought to be made to pay for it.’
Mr Campion’s mind grappled with the absurdities of the situation. ‘Before we go along to the Yard I think you’d better tell me the full story.’
‘Would that be Scotland Yard, sir?’ Mr Boot’s tone was suddenly respectful. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there and see the big shots,’ he added naïvely. ‘I was afraid I’d have to take these along to a common police station and let some jack-in-office of a local inspector take most of the credit.’
‘Oh, I’ll take you to Scotland Yard all right,’ said Mr Campion, feeling a little foolish. ‘We’ll go and have tea with the Superintendent, if you like. Where did you get all this incriminating property?’
Mr Boot smiled. The mention of the name ‘Scotland Yard’ seemed to have thawed him into childlike affability. He sat down.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘Out of the cloakroom at Charing Cross. Fancy that.’
‘Fancy indeed,’ echoed Campion. ‘Where did you get the ticket?’
‘Ah …’ Herbert raised his head. ‘Where do you think? Out of one of his lordship’s own blessed suits, and that’s a fact. I’ve got witnesses.’
It seemed to Mr Campion that ever since he had met Chloe on the previous afternoon the very flavour of life had been touched with the fantastic, a circumstance he had attributed entirely to the influence of her personality, but this was a frank absurdity, and he began to doubt his ears.
Herbert beamed at his perplexity.
‘I’ll tell you the story,’ he said. ‘I can see you’re a bit took back and I don’t blame you. I was myself when I first opened this suitcase. I was put on to Sir Matthew Pearing by Miss Pleyell, who got to know of me through my young lady. “Just keep an eye on Sir Matthew,” she said. Naturally I asked her in what way and she said she didn’t know, but she thought there was something definitely mysterious about him. Those were her very words, sir; “de
finitely mysterious”.’
Campion groaned silently and Herbert continued.
‘Well, I kept an eye on the gentleman,’ he said, folding his hands on his waistcoat. ‘And what did I find? Nothing at all for a long time. That Sir Matthew’s a sly bird. For weeks he went on living a most regular life with his servants as solemn as he was. And then – chance took a ’and.’
He nodded complacently.
‘Then I got a bit o’ luck. There’s a Mr Tuke who is Sir Matthew’s valet. I ingratiated myself with ’im. He’s one of these lazy, overpaid gent’s gents, and I found out he ’ad the sauce to send ’is master’s suits down to the quick cleaners to save ’isself the trouble of doing the pressing. ’E paid for them out of ’is own money, I dare say, but it wasn’t right. I said nothing, of course, and as it happened that little trick of Master Tuke’s was lucky for me. This morning I was in the kitchen – I often go round there early – and Mr Tuke asked me if I’d do him a favour by slipping down to the cleaners and collecting a dinner-jacket outfit he’d left there last night. I went, and when the girl gave me the parcel she handed over a little black wallet that had been left in the pocket. I examined it in accordance with my duties and inside I found two penny stamps and a cloakroom ticket.’
‘You hung on to the wallet?’
‘I did.’ Herbert spoke firmly. ‘I examined it in front of the girl. I’m very careful. You have to be in this business. I made her make a note of the case, the stamps, and the number of the ticket. Then I came away. I gave the suit to Mr Tuke, who identified it, mind you, but I kept the wallet and I went down to Charing Cross. I gave up the ticket at the cloakroom. I got this suitcase in return and I opened it before the attendant. “Now, my lad,” I said to him when I see what was inside; “I’m a detective. Take a good look at me. Here’s my card,” I said. “Take a look at this stuff,” I said. “I’ll need you as a witness.” After that I gave ’im a signed receipt for the case and kept the cloakroom ticket. I took a copy of the receipt and I mentioned the number of the cloakroom ticket on each slip of paper.’
‘Did you, though?’ said Mr Campion, whose respect for Herbert was slowly mounting. ‘Then you went to Miss Pleyell and she sent you on to me, I suppose?’
‘Exactly,’ his visitor agreed. ‘And now, if you please, sir, I’d like to go to Scotland Yard.’
Mr Campion glanced at the silver at his feet.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes. Quite. I think you’d better. I’ll come with you.’
A little over an hour later Superintendent Stanislaus Oates sat behind his desk in his private office at the headquarters of the Central Branch and stared at his friend Mr Albert Campion, a slightly bewildered expression in his bright blue eyes.
Herbert had retold his story once and was now obligingly doing so again to a sergeant in another room, while a constable wrote it all down. The two friends were alone.
‘It’s idiotic,’ said Oates suddenly. ‘We’ll check up on Boot’s story, of course, and it may be false, yet I’m open to bet it’s the truth. I know his type – we’ve got plenty of ’em in the Force. What an extraordinary thing!’
Campion lit a cigarette and his eyes were thoughtful.
‘Oh, our Herbert is honest,’ he said. ‘Herbert’s as honest as the day. You’re sure you can identify the stuff?’
‘Certain.’ Oates glanced towards the battered suitcase on the table in the corner. ‘There’s no doubt of that. You heard what Inspector Baker said. He’s working on the case. He’s seen photographs and studied descriptions. Besides, my dear chap, it’s all there. That’s the proceeds of the Question Mark’s Manchester Square haul all right; no doubt about it. We’ll check up on the cloakroom attendant and the girl at the cleaners’, and if these are okay we’ll have to interview Sir Matthew. There’s no other way. We must find out where the ticket came from. He’ll be able to give us an explanation all right, but we must have it.’
Campion thrust his hands into his pockets and his lean face was troubled.
‘That’s going to be infernally awkward, isn’t it?’ he ventured. ‘You’ll have to drag in Herbert to protect yourselves, and he’ll have to mention Miss Pleyell to protect himself.’
Oates, one of the kindest and most sympathetic of men, spread out his stubby fingers in a gesture of regret.
‘He’s a lawyer,’ he said. ‘Her name will come out in the end. You can’t suppress it. She’s asked for it, you know.’
Campion nodded. ‘Still, it seems a pity she should get it,’ he said, and grimaced. ‘Sir Matthew’s obviously not the Question Mark himself, and it’s a pity to drag him into it. He’ll never forgive her. He’s not that type.’
The Superintendent did not smile. ‘I know, I know, my lad,’ he said. ‘You needn’t tell me. I’d like to do all I could for the girl. Indirectly she’s put us on to a very important thing. But what other course is open to me? I ask you.’
The tall young man in the horn-rimmed spectacles was silent for some moments. The vague idea which had come to him on the previous afternoon when Mr Florian had been talking to Chloe, and which had been knocking at intervals on the door of his mind ever since, suddenly presented itself as a concrete thing. He looked up.
‘What was the number of the ticket for the suit?’ he demanded.
‘The cloakroom ticket?’
‘No, that was for the suitcase. What was the number of the cleaners’ ticket that Tuke gave Herbert when he sent him down to claim Sir Matthew’s dinner jacket?’
Oates regarded him silently.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got it here. Boot got it from the girl and gave her a receipt instead. He’s a cautious lad, is Herbert. Here you are – one hundred and sixty-one.’
He pushed over a small square of magenta paper on which the figures were roughly printed beneath a single line of very small type announcing ‘The Birch Road Quick Cleaning Coy.’ Campion folded the heading over carefully and turned the slip round before he gave it back.
‘How about that if a girl was in a hurry?’ he inquired.
The Superintendent’s heavy eyebrows rose as he stared at it.
‘That’s an idea,’ he said cautiously. ‘A genuine idea.’
Campion leaned over the desk.
‘Come down yourself to the cleaners’ with me now and bring the wallet,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘Another?’
‘I think so. It’s a notion which has been fidgeting me all day. There’s just a chance I may be on to the man you want. Those two descriptions of the Question Mark which you had – one from a postman in the Clarges Street show and one from the nurse in the earlier business – both agreed that he was a stooping, sinister figure, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, but the other woman who saw him running said he straightened up when he was on the move,’ Oates objected.
‘Ah, but she saw him from above,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Will you come down to the cleaners’ with me?’
The Superintendent rose, grumbling.
‘I don’t mind you working yourself to death for your friends,’ he said, ‘but I resent it when I’m expected to do the same. All right, we’ll take Herbert and a sergeant. I hope you have got something up your sleeve.’
‘So do I,’ murmured Mr Campion fervently. ‘I should hate to have to take back that epergne.’
The Birch Road Quick-Cleaning Company’s establishment was not a large affair. It was situated in a back street some way behind the magnificent block in which Sir Matthew Pearing had his super-flat. Herbert and the sergeant remained in the taxicab some little distance down the road, while Campion and the Superintendent interviewed the harassed but by no means unintelligent young woman in charge.
She left the steaming press in the window and listened carefully to their questions.
She remembered Herbert’s visit perfectly, and readily produced his receipt for the suit and the wallet. Moreover, she remembered Mr Tuke, who was a regular customer, bringing in the dinn
er jacket on the previous evening. She also identified her own official ticket.
‘One hundred and sixty-one,’ she said. ‘I remember it.’
Campion turned the magenta slip round.
‘How about one hundred and ninety-one? It’s an easy slip if you look at it quickly,’ he suggested.
She glanced up at him with shrewd Cockney eyes.
‘It could ’ave ’appened,’ she admitted. ‘But it didn’t. I remember the suit.’
‘Very likely, Miss.’ Oates beamed upon her in his most avuncular fashion. ‘But that’s not the point. It’s the wallet we’re interested in. What happens when something is left in the pocket of a coat which comes in to be cleaned?’
The girl’s face cleared.
‘That’s about it,’ she said suddenly. ‘Just a minute.’
As she crossed the shop to the inner room Oates glanced at Campion.
‘She’s sharp,’ he said. ‘We’re lucky.’
‘George,’ shouted the girl, ‘come here, will you?’
A tall thin man, clad in bedraggled trousers and a singlet came out of the steam chamber, wiping his face and arms with a towel.
‘This is my brother George,’ the girl explained. ‘He does the suits. He’d know what you want.’
George stared at the black wallet which the Superintendent showed him for some little time before he committed himself.
‘That’s right,’ he said at last. ‘I found it in an inside pocket in a waistcoat. It was very nearly empty when I saw it – a couple of stamps and a ticket.’
‘That’s right. It’s of no value. But what did you do with it?’
‘Put it in here, like I always do when I come across things.’
George pulled open a drawer in the cash desk, where several odds and ends were stacked neatly, each with a slip of paper attached.
‘See?’ he said. ‘I lay the article in here and I write the number of the suit I took it from on a bit of paper and lay it on top of the thing. When Sis gives the clothes back she just matches the numbers and returns the property.’
Campion sighed with relief.
‘Then it would have been possible to mistake the number one-six-one for one-nine-one, for instance?’
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