Mr Campion & Others

by Margery Allingham

  ‘Well, he’s a distinguished bird, you know. He’s a recluse, a famous man, an Egyptologist of world renown, he’s lived like a bishop all his life, and now he’s started sneaking out of the house like an adolescent and trotting off to music-halls alone, all up and down the country, performance after performance. She thinks he’s either up to something or nuts. And I said “bone”, not “bony”. It’s a question of design.’

  ‘Dr Clement Tiffin,’ murmured Campion. ‘He’s everything you say, and yet why should that name make me think of crossword puzzles?’

  ‘It shouldn’t.’ Lance was irritated. ‘It should make you think of pyramids, incredibly decent and decaying clubs, and the pavilion at Lord’s. Anyway, don’t go deducing who he is; we know that. I’ve got you along here to help me find out what he’s up to. I mean, does the poor girl call in an alienist, or resign herself to the fact that the poor old boy at the age of seventy-seven has fallen for a beautiful Egyptian hip-waggler?’

  Mr Campion eyed him over the rim of his glasses.

  ‘Is that your only problem?’ he said. ‘Because believe me, if you’ve had the impudence to get me out here simply for that …’

  ‘Well, not quite,’ Lance admitted hastily. ‘Marguerite certainly isn’t a fool, and she’s got something pretty serious on her mind. I couldn’t get much out of her, but she seems to think that the old man is in some sort of danger.’

  ‘Spiritual or bang-on-the-head?’

  ‘Oh, physical. No dream stuff. I told you Marguerite’s got brains.’

  ‘Brains and bone,’ said Campion. ‘Dear me, and a very fine seat on a horse, too, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘I rather resent that, old boy.’ Lance was not smiling, and Campion, who knew him so well that his mercurial temperament was not the mystery it might well have been, suddenly perceived the situation. Lance was indulging in a phase of ‘utter decency’ and, since he invariably took colour from the people who happened to be interesting him at the moment, it followed as the night the day, that the Tiffins were of a very definite class and type.

  ‘Marguerite is not the sort of girl who’d come roaring round after Papa herself?’ he suggested.

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ said Lance, scandalised.

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Campion.

  Lance was silent for a moment or so and finally decided to unbend.

  ‘If you only knew old Tiffin, you’d see how remarkable it all is,’ he said. ‘He’s so very much the – er – the top drawer, if you’ll forgive the phrase. He’s got a great brain, too. The idea of him sneaking out to see this blessed woman dance time after time in the most revolting little halls all over the place is incredible. He’s not that sort of chap.’

  He looked round the pleasant dirty little bar as if he had never seen it before, and Campion watched him with his eyes dancing behind his spectacles.

  ‘’Ullo, Bert.’

  The salutation rang out across the room and, as soon as he heard the familiar cracked Cockney, Campion became aware of an impending social crisis.

  ‘Cassy,’ he said.

  ‘Wot O! Cor, this is a bit of all right. ’Ow are yer, chum?’

  The crowd heaved and billowed, and a figure emerged from it. He landed squarely before them, his small rodent’s face alight with bonhomie and gin. He was a little man, narrow-chested and narrow-faced, with slit eyes and a long, slender nose with a twitch to it. Sartorially he was quite remarkable, for he wore a vivid blue suit. His mind seemed to be running on clothes also, for he flicked Campion’s shirt front with a grubby thumbnail.

  ‘Washington’s come ’ome, I see,’ he said. ‘Come and ’ave one. ’Oo’s yer pal?’

  Campion performed the introduction with misgiving.

  ‘Lance, this is Mr Cassy Wild, a very old friend of mine,’ he said. ‘Cassy, this is Mr Lancelot Feering, a celebrity.’

  If the final description was intended as a warning, Cassy was in no mood to take it.

  ‘Sir Lancelot. ’Strewth, that’s a moniker to go to bed with,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Named after an ’orse, mate? No offence meant and none took, I ’ope. What is ’e, Bert? A dick?’

  Lance was eyeing him coldly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you,’ he said with the half apologetic smile which contains the deadliest insult.

  ‘And that is lucky,’ cut in Campion, with haste and emphasis, as he trod delicately on one of Mr Wild’s long narrow shoes.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The newcomer cocked an intelligent eye at his friend and a long and meaning look was exchanged between them.

  ‘How’s business?’ inquired Campion.

  A row of abominable teeth appeared for an instant across the pallid waste of Mr Wild’s ignoble face.

  ‘Not so bad,’ he said. ‘I caught a shice and did a carpet in the spring. Had to come to town without a coal. But a denar here and a denar there soon mounts up, you know, and I’m in clover. By the way, this is my monkery, so who’s your party?’

  ‘Myself, my friend, and our punter is an elderly and distinguished finger in Box B,’ replied Campion without hesitation.

  ‘Okay, Bert.’ Mr Wild shook hands effusively. ‘See you some other time. So long. It’s a nice show. The palone in the Didikye turn is a knockout. Wot ’o.’

  Lance conducted Campion back to their seats in silence.

  ‘That was rather an extraordinary thing to do, wasn’t it?’ he muttered as they sat down. ‘Surely there was no need to mention Dr Tiffin to your repulsive friend, was there?’

  ‘Didn’t you take to Cassy?’ Campion seemed surprised. ‘He’s a dear chap. As a matter of fact, that was most considerate of him. This is his district, as he told us, and he did not want to embarrass any friend of mine with his professional attentions. Very thoughtful. Cassy has gentlemanly instincts, if they are not sartorially expressed.’

  ‘Professional …?’ Lance twisted round in his seat. ‘D’you mean to say that fellow was a thief?’

  ‘A whizz-boy,’ said Campion modestly, ‘i.e., pickpocket. The most skilful practitioner in the country. Don’t raise your voice, old man. Listen to the pretty accordion player.’

  ‘Yes, but I say, Campion …’ Lance was positively blushing. ‘You do know some most amazing people. Good Lord!’

  ‘Marguerite wouldn’t like him?’ suggested Campion, and Lance did not deign to reply. He sat glowering, ill at ease and apprehensive, while every now and again he glanced up at the dark box above them where the bent figure of a little old man sat alone, watching the glittering stage with idle introspective eyes.

  Campion lit a match to look at his programme.

  ‘Charmian, Exotic Dancer of the Desert,’ he read softly. ‘She’s due any minute now. Cassy said she was a knock-out, although he thought she was a gypsy. Still, he’s no connoisseur. I wonder … Why does that name Tiffin remind me of crosswords?’

  ‘It doesn’t. Don’t keep saying that. You’re getting on my nerves.’ Lance stirred uneasily in his chair. ‘Thank heaven this chap’s finishing. Here we are; number eight at last.’

  The dusty red curtain had descended with a sweep of tarnished tassel and fringe, and the accordion player was taking his call. The old man in the box drew back a little and raised his white head expectantly. The orchestra played a fanfare and the curtain rose again, disclosing a semi-darkened stage.

  Gradually the light grew stronger, and Campion, who had expected the usual pseudo-Eastern eurythmics, sat up. The dancer was standing in the centre of the stage, her arms at her sides. She was dressed in a long white tunic and an Egyptian headdress and collar. She was not particularly beautiful, and the profile, outlined against the dark hangings behind her, was strong rather than lovely. He glanced up at the box.

  Dr Tiffin had moved forward and the light from the stage caught his face. There was something unexpected in his expression, a sternness, almost a dislike, and Campion, seeing it, suddenly remembered why his name had reminded him so strongly of crossword puzzles. His eyebrows rose and his lips purs
ed to a soundless whistle as he turned back to the stage.

  The girl who was billed as ‘Charmian’ was no ordinary dancer. There was even something of the old-fashioned contortionist in her performance, yet she contrived to make her slow, unnatural movements peculiarly graceful, and, what was far more extraordinary, peculiarly Egyptian, or, more specifically, ancient Egyptian.

  Campion sat with his eyes fixed upon her, and again and again the rows of painted figures on the mummy cases in the British Museum leapt to his mind. The dance continued to slow music, and Charmian held her audience. The strange thing about her was her lack of facial movement. Throughout her turn she might have been wearing a mask, yet her powers of expression were amazing. She danced with an urgency of meaning which was unmistakable, and it seemed to be this dumb striving towards communication which reached out over the footlights and forced attention.

  The clientele of the Old Sobriety was an exacting audience, and it could scarcely be called highbrow, yet it sat up and watched, fascinated.

  Lance appeared to be spellbound. He did not stir throughout the turn, but remained rigid, his dark eyes round and surprised.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he said, when at length the curtain descended upon her. ‘Good Lord, how incredible! She’s like a blessed papyrus. Hallo, what’s the matter with you?’

  Campion said nothing, but there was a startled expression on his face, and his eyes were raised to Box B. Lance followed his glance and an exclamation escaped him.

  ‘Gone,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Slipped round the back, I suppose, while we were gaping at his girl friend. Well, I don’t altogether blame him for his enthusiasm. She’s an experience to watch.’

  ‘Be quiet.’ Campion was on his feet. ‘Come on,’ he murmured, and there was so much anxiety in his voice that the painter rose and followed him without a word.

  Lance did not catch up with him as he hurried through the auditorium, and only reached his side as he sprinted down the dusty corridor behind the circle.

  ‘I say, you can’t butt in on him,’ he protested in a flurry. ‘He’s not that kind of old boy. We can’t, Campion. Marguerite would never forgive me.’

  Campion flung off his restraining hand and opened the door of the box.

  Dr Tiffin lay on the floor beside the chair from which he had fallen. He had crumpled up and slipped forward, and there was a thin dark streak among his white hairs.

  They got him out of the theatre and into a taxi. It was not altogether a simple matter, for the old man was still unconscious, but Lance was convinced that the absence of any scandal was of paramount importance, and Campion, for entirely different reasons, was disposed to agree.

  ‘We’ll get him home first and then find his own doctor,’ he said. ‘He’s all right. I think. His heart is sound, and there’s no fracture. He’ll be all right in a day or so.’

  ‘I don’t understand it.’ Lance was white with apprehension. ‘When Marguerite said “danger” I thought she was exaggerating. This is fantastic. He’s only a fan of the dancer’s, as far as I know. No one can mind him looking at her, surely, however attentive he is.’

  Campion glanced up from his patient, whom he was supporting in the back of the cab.

  ‘That rather depends,’ he said slowly. ‘Look here, Lance, I fancy we’re on dangerous ground. I think you may just have to wipe this incident clean out of your mind. Forget it. Pretend it didn’t happen.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Campion did not reply. Dr Tiffin had begun to stir, and his voice, thick and slurred, startled them both. At first the muttered words were indistinguishable, but as they leaned forward anxiously a single phrase came out clearly in the darkness.

  ‘Thine uncle bears thee gifts,’ said the Egyptologist distinctly. He repeated it again, and the extraordinary words ceased to be ludicrous in that thin pedantic voice. ‘Thine uncle bears thee gifts.’

  ‘What?’ Lance was shocked into the question. ‘What did you say, sir? What gifts?’

  The old man did not answer. His head had fallen forward and he went off into incoherent mutterings once more.

  ‘Did you hear that, Campion?’ Lance’s own voice rose to a squeak. ‘It’s turned his brain. What an extraordinary thing to say. “Thine uncle …”’

  ‘Hush,’ said Campion gently. ‘Hush, old boy. Forget it. Here we are. Help me get him into the house.’

  Miss Marguerite Tiffin turned out to be a pleasant surprise to Campion. Lance’s reactions had led him to expect, if not the worst, something very near it, but he found, instead of the academic snob he had envisaged, a very sensible and charming young woman with a snub nose and a quick, shy smile. Moreover, for a girl who was not used to having her Papa brought home on a shutter, she was remarkably cool and quick on the uptake. It was only when the old man was safely in bed with his doctor in attendance that she betrayed any sign of strain.

  ‘I’m tremendously grateful to you, Lance,’ she said, ‘but you do see now that I was right to interfere?’

  ‘Good Lord, yes.’ Lance was holding her hand far too long, and Campion was inclined to sympathise with him. ‘All the same I’m still in the dark. The whole thing bewilders me. It seems to me to be an entirely meaningless attack on an inoffensive old gentleman who wasn’t doing anyone any harm.’

  Marguerite hesitated. She had round grey eyes, and at the moment they were intensely serious.

  ‘Lance,’ she said slowly, ‘do you think you could go on thinking that, and then – then forget the whole thing utterly? Never mention it to daddy or to anyone else. I can rely on you to do that, can’t I, Mr Campion?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Campion gravely. ‘Yes, I think you can.’

  Lance came away unwillingly after lengthy farewells.

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t be so darned mysterious,’ he grumbled, as they walked out of Bedford Square together. ‘I’ll do anything Marguerite asks me within reason, of course, but why the hush-hush? What’s the matter with the old man? Has he got some well-known form of bats-in-the-belfry which I’ve not heard about? What was all that about his uncle? Damn it, are you or am I?’

  Campion hailed a cab, but Lance drew back.

  ‘Now where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘Back to my flat.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Drink,’ said Campion. ‘If you must know, drinks, ginger biscuits, and I should rather think a visitor.’

  By midnight Lance was beside himself with irritation.

  ‘An impossible evening,’ he declared. ‘What infuriates me is your blessed calm. Hang it, I invited you to help me follow old Tiffin, and what happens? First you introduce me to a little sneak-thief who seems to regard you as some sort of favourite relative, then we find Tiffin biffed over the head and we take him home, where Marguerite behaves as though she was taking in the laundry and you back her up in treating the entire thing as nothing to write home about. Finally, we sit up here waiting for a caller. Whom do you expect?’

  Campion pushed the decanter towards him.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ he said truthfully.

  ‘You’re potty.’ The childish accusation seemed to relieve the artist and he refilled his glass. ‘You haven’t invited anyone and you don’t know who is coming, but you’ve just got a psychic feeling that a visitor is imminent. Well, if I’ve got to sit up all night I may as well make something out of it. I’ll lay you a hundred to one in shillings …’

  He broke off abruptly. Out in the hall the electric bell had begun to ring authoritatively. An instant later Campion’s man admitted without ceremony Superintendent Stanislaus Oates and a companion, and closed the door after them.

  The two men stood on the threshold looking tall and official in the brightly lit room, and Campion rose to greet his old friend. The Superintendent was cool. He was not hostile, but there was a formality in his manner which was not customary. After his first greeting he introduced the stranger with warning deference.

  ‘This is Captain Smith, Mr Ca
mpion,’ he said severely. ‘He’d like a few words with you and Mr Feering about your activities tonight, if you don’t mind. No, thank you, we won’t drink.’

  The little company sat down stiffly. Captain Smith was a restraining influence. He was a lean, brown man with a dry precision of manner which enhanced the natural austerity of his personality. The one obvious fact about him was that his name was not Smith and that his rank was understated. Lance, who fancied himself as a student of faces, was startled by the impersonal penetration of his blue eyes. He glanced at Campion and was relieved to see that, although grave, he did not seem surprised.

  ‘I rather expected a visit from the police,’ Campion remarked to Oates. ‘You’ve seen Dr Tiffin, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’ Captain Smith answered quietly, before the Superintendent could speak. ‘Will you explain exactly why you went to the Pantheon Music-hall tonight, and why you were so peculiarly fortunate as to have been on the spot to render assistance as soon as it was needed?’

  ‘Mr Feering can explain that better than I can,’ Campion was beginning, when a second ring at the bell outside jolted everybody. No one spoke, and the two visitors turned slowly in their chairs to watch the door.

  The manservant was some time in coming, and when at last he did appear he spoke dubiously.

  ‘Mr Cassy Wild to see you, sir,’ he said.

  Lance stiffened. As an addition to this already somewhat sticky party the ebullient Cassy did not appeal to him. The same notion appeared to have occurred to Campion, he was relieved to see.

  ‘Oh, ask him to wait,’ he said hastily. ‘Put him in the study.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ As the man withdrew, Captain Smith swung round on Campion.

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘Yes. A very old one.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir.’ The Superintendent spoke deferentially. His grey face was impassive, but there was the hint of a twitch at the corners of his mouth. ‘I know him.’

  ‘I see. Then we’ll go on. You were on the point of giving me an explanation, Mr Feering.’