Cargo of Eagles

by Margery Allingham

  The buildings were made up of four long sheds, each with an open communicating door. The torch threw brief scudding shadows from a dusty medley of masts, spars, coiled ropes, empty cases and sacks. From high above them an imprisoned bird, scared by the light, beat blindly against the corrugated iron of the roof.

  The girl did not pause until they had reached the far angle of the final section. She was still keeping the illumination on the floor, for much of the planking was unsound and treacherous. Abruptly she halted her companion and for a moment they waited in utter darkness.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Now. There she is.’

  The sudden shaft of light which flashed upwards into the corner was almost blinding. Morty, who had no sort of theory about what he was going to see, was quite unprepared for the shock of discovery. Above him towered the blind eyed figure of a woman with jutting voluptuous breasts who appeared to be soaring between earth and sky, a wooden giantess whose cold unreality was emphasised by crude faded colours, pink, blue and grey. Snakes writhed about her forehead and the carving was cruel and incisive.

  He drew a long breath and whistled. ‘She surely is a shocker. What a beauty, though. Do you know what she is?’

  Doll Jensen played the torch over the massive body and the shadows on the wall appeared to dance.

  ‘Not a due. I think she’s just the coolest thing ever. Glad you came?’

  Morty moved closer and ran an exploring finger over the formalised folds of drapery which concealed nothing of the gross curves of belly and thigh.

  ‘She’s a ship’s figurehead. About eighteen ten, I’d say at a guess. A real peach. She ought to be in a museum. H.M.S. Medusa, if you want to bet on her name. Doll, I’m certainly grateful to you.’

  Her grip on his hand tightened.

  ‘You’ll put her in your book?’

  ‘Surely.’

  The girl was facing him now, her upturned head level with his chin.

  ‘Glad you’re pleased. I wanted to please you, see?’

  The kiss was slow, deep and quite inevitable. The girl gave her lips and her whole body to him with an intensity which quivered between them without any restraining instinct. The torch clicked into oblivion and for a time they swayed together, mindless and hungry.

  Presently she relaxed and took a couple of steps backward dragging him with her. Morty, putting out a protective arm, found himself collapsing easily on to musty sacks whose presence he had scarcely noticed.

  The girl nestled and twisted beneath him and he found her mouth, wide and soft as velvet.

  For a long minute neither of them moved and he could feel her heart beating hard and regular against his chest.

  Quite suddenly her body became tense. She was still gripping the torch in one hand and it now burst into light over his shoulder. Her high pitched scream of pure terror was directed at something immediately behind his head.

  ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘No, you . . .’

  Morty had a split second vision of being plunged into the interior of a meteorite. Agony seized him like a flame which devoured and paralysed and he collapsed into a pit whose depth was not to be guessed.

  He did not wake to full consciousness for many hours. Lights, faces and voices drifted about him like strange fish seen through a distorting glass. With focus and perspective came pain which dragged him mercilessly back to reality.

  Dr Dido Jones was bending over him and standing diffidently beside her was Mr Campion.

  10

  Doctor and Patient

  ‘YOU’LL PROBABLY HAVE a splitting headache for a couple of days, so relax and take it easy. There’s no great harm done.’

  Dr Jones’ voice was cool and her hands straightened the coverlet brusquely. Until that moment Morty had considered that she was the ideal ministering angel to smooth the fevered brow and in his wilder daydreams had envied anyone fortunate enough to be her patient, but now there was an inflection in her tone which he found too impersonal for his peace of mind.

  ‘Don’t bother about explanations. We know most of them, anyway. Drink this.’

  He raised himself painfully as the world swayed giddily about him and did as he was told. He was lying, he realised, in a large Victorian four-poster bed in a room which bore all the fussy ultra-respectable hallmarks of the period. Faded photographs mounted in crimson velvet and the more ponderous works of Burne Jones and Watts looked down placidly from walls decorated with ribbons and roses. The back of his head still opened and closed with searing irregularity.

  He made a supreme effort.

  ‘It would be a help if you told me where the heck I am.’

  Dido’s voice came to him from a long way off. ‘You’re at The Hollies. We brought you here last night. This is Sunday morning . . . Sunday morning . . . Sunday . . .’

  The pain slowly dissolved into clouds of cotton wool and he slept.

  When he next awoke he was dimly aware of a large lugubrious face looking down on him. Mr Lugg was standing at the foot of the bed, a massive arm supporting one of the posts.

  For some time he eyed the patient without moving and Morty returned the stare. To prove that he was awake he winked.

  ‘You dropped a clanger last night, cock.’

  Morty sighed. ‘You’re telling me. It fell right on top of my head. What happened?’

  ‘Gawd knows.’ Mr Lugg shrugged his shoulders. ‘’Er ladyship ’as decided to open up the ’ouse for the summer season. I’m on tempor’y loan to make the party respectable and do the washing up—what the Frogs call a Conscience. They came down together last night lookin’ for yer.’ He sucked a tooth reflectively. ‘Well, it was me wot found yer.’

  ‘And brought me here?’

  ‘Exackly. If you’d been took back to the pub in the mess you was in ’alf the rozzers in the place would be asking questions and ’is nibs is in no mood to give ’em answers. I never seen ’im in such a state. As for Doctor D, it’ll take more than a bunch of forget-me-nots to put ’er feathers straight. You was a bit public, mate, with your amoors last night. You can’t go playing Errol Flynn in front of a full ’ouse without getting your name in the gossip columns. You was noticed. Mrs. Dixie blew the gaff on your bit of nooky in black tights so I didn’t ’urry meself to find you. Then when you didn’t come ’ome and I see yer bit of nonsense messing around in ’er van all on ’er tod I knew it was safe to look for yer. You was out like a light in that shed which I might add is one of the best known local boodwah love nests. That’s the full strength of the ’ow d’ye do.’

  Morty groaned. His head still ached intolerably and for the first time he became aware that a bandage was closely swathed over a lump the size of a tablespoon. He put a tentative hand to the spot.

  ‘You ’ad an argument with a blunt instrument. Know ’oo ’it yer?’

  Beyond his line of vision a door opened and he recognised a familiar voice.

  ‘A very good question. Have you any idea?’

  Mr Campion joined Lugg at the foot of the bed. He was as bland as ever but the lines on his face were more defined than Morty remembered. The patient started to shake his head but abandoned the attempt.

  ‘Not a clue. It came from behind me. I don’t think I walked into a trap. I—I think that damned girl was as surprised as I was.’

  ‘So I gather.’ Mr Campion’s tone was diffident. ‘I ran the lady to earth this morning—not without difficulty. She seems to have been thoroughly frightened and to have left you to it. Not a loyal type I’m afraid. She simply fled. She claims she dropped her torch in the rough and tumble which is probably true since I found it this morning. I returned it to her. It made a convenient introduction.’

  ‘But she saw who it was. She shouted out.’

  Mr Campion’s frown deepened. ‘That’s just the trouble. I don’t care for her information at all. It complicates the whole picture. This is a private war and the fewer people who join in the better.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed and eyed the young man seriously.

&nb
sp; ‘You wouldn’t consider dropping out of it? I asked you down here to do a little innocent on-the-spot observation for me, not to get your skull cracked. No? I was afraid of that.’

  ‘If I run away now I’m a lost soul, so include me in. I’m free, white and I feel as old as the hills, but I’m staying on the tail of this bandwagon until I find exactly where it is going. Now come dean. Who coshed me last night?’

  Mr Campion sighed.

  ‘The lady says she’d never seen him before in her life. She’s quite emphatic about it and swears it wasn’t one of the tearaway boys. A big man, she thinks, but she’s only really certain of one thing. He had a black patch over one eye.’

  ‘Burrows, the man who can hit the weathercock.’

  ‘As you say—Mr Target Burrows—a very unpleasant personality. Manners none and customs beastly. From my point of view he has another unfortunate characteristic—he is liable to attract official attention.’

  For the first time that day Morty smiled.

  ‘You’re being goddam mysterious. Don’t you want all the help you can get?’

  Mr Campion took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief before replying.

  ‘My lips ought to be sealed,’ he said at last. ‘Like the third oriental monkey—I see and hear evil but I shouldn’t speak it. For the sake of your health—and possibly Dido’s—the less you know the better. You could say that I am trying to find some Government property. If I succeed I shall misappropriate it, because I have an excellent reason for doing so. That is why I am not overjoyed when little items like poison pen letters, unsolved murders or simple unexplained bangs on the head crop up and attract official attention. I hope I make myself clear?’

  ‘You know damn well you don’t. These two guys, Teague and Burrows, have the same idea, I suppose?’

  ‘That’s roughly the picture.’ Mr Campion was choosing his words carefully. ‘This—er—property was probably concealed somewhere in Saltey about twenty years ago, and if that is the case then Teague should know where to look for it. Unfortunately he has vanished extremely efficiently but there’s evidence to suggest he’s not far off. Burrows on the other hand probably doesn’t know where to look or he’d have done so long ago. He may be waiting for his partner to show up and discouraging other enquiries in the meantime. If they are working together again they make a nasty pair and if Teague, in particular, gets caught . . .’ He hunched his shoulders and hesitated. ‘If he’s caught, we’re finished.’

  ‘How come?’

  Campion stood up. ‘Teague has kept his mouth shut all these years when he knew that a few words could earn him remission—possibly immediate release, if he played his cards right. He’s a cold blooded adventurer and it looks as if he’s made his long term plans very carefully, as a man often does when he’s got plenty of time to think. If he’s caught before he gets what he’s after, nothing on earth will make him speak. He’ll die with his secret.’

  Outside the church bells had begun their evening peal and a shaft of light was making the room appear as if it were filled with golden dust. A motor cycle roared past the house headed for Mob’s Bowl and Mr Campion waited until the fusillade was over before continuing.

  ‘If that happens,’ he said, ‘the consequences could be tragic. It would almost certainly cause the death of a perfectly innocent woman whose survival is extremely important and it might set up a chain reaction which would involve a great many more lives. My dear chap, I do know that this sounds melodramatic and mysterious but the trouble is that it happens to be unpleasantly true. It’s also a trifle urgent, because I have very few days left. So you see, Teague simply mustn’t be caught.’

  The efficiency of Dido Jones as a doctor, never a matter of doubt to her patients or her admirers, was demonstrated with clinical clarity all through the evening. She had looked in several times, using a thermometer which she wielded so as to make conversation strictly limited, but despite his misgivings Morty found his headache evaporating more quickly than he had dared to hope. Now she returned bearing tea and toast. She was wearing a linen suit of pale cream which emphasised the gleaming ebony of her hair.

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ she announced. ‘Temperature normal, pulse normal, bruise coming up nicely. If your head is clear tomorrow you can go back to The Demon—or whatever else you please. Take it easy for a couple of days and don’t try to drive a car.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’ Morty put as much penitence into his voice as he dared. ‘I—I guess. it’s no use saying . . .’

  ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘I’m going back to town now. I’ve got work to do in the morning. Lugg will look after you for tonight. He’s staying on as caretaker. Goodbye.’

  He caught her arm as she turned. ‘Goodbye?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dido, you couldn’t get around to seeing me as a wounded warrior—a casualty in some goddam heroic cause that I’m not even allowed to understand?’

  Her laugh was cool and almost conventional but there was a trace of real amusement in it.

  ‘No, Morty. I simply couldn’t. It wasn’t blood on your face and your shirt, you know. Just a rather off beat brand of lipstick. Very unflattering.’

  He did not relax his grip.

  ‘I guess there’s no future in this conversation. Could you give me a consultation about my health, say next Thursday at Quaglino’s? It would give me something to live for.’

  Dido freed herself. ‘No. Mortimer Kelsey, I could not. The plain truth about you at the moment is that you are in the doghouse, which is a very appropriate place for you, now I come to think of it. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight is better than goodbye.’

  ‘If you think so.’

  ‘Just one thing, lady.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, Dido, Dido, Dido . . .’

  The door dosed behind her so quietly that he did not hear it. Suddenly he felt old and drowsy. The tea on the table beside him grew cold and through his dreams the ticking of a clock marked the passing of long empty hours.

  Mossy Ling left The Demon at five minutes after closing time on Sunday evening, a custom by which many inhabitants of Mob’s Bowl set their watches. He was not in a good mood since despite all his efforts to turn attention his way he had not been entirely successful, with the result that he had been compelled to pay for rather more beer than his carefully calculated economy permitted. Strangers had been sparse for the time of year and he depended upon their support for his refreshment. To add to his difficulties the main topic of conversation had been Morty’s exploit in humiliating the tearaways and there had been too many other witnesses to make his account of this affair of particular interest. He had tried a new gambit in the morning but with little success, for the company had been rather too sophisticated for his line of approach. Had it not been for his skill in removing unfinished drinks during the temporary absence of their owners the evening would have been a total failure.

  Now he teetered across the pebbled frontage of The Demon, his footsteps making a distinctive clip-clip-crunch as he moved, for he was stiff in one leg and supported himself nimbly enough with a blackthorn. He passed the silent mass of the sail lofts and shuffled purposefully past the row of brick and tile houses known as Salt Street. At the far end he turned into a narrow alley which emerged on to an area of twitchy grass beyond which lay a huddle of darkened shacks which had once been fishermen’s cottages. His own habitation, originally a tarred wood stable, had been converted into a two-roomed bungalow but it still kept its half door. The latch clicked sharply as he entered and he left the upper section ajar to give himself sufficient light. Like many old countrymen he kept the place hermetically sealed in summer and winter alike but the stale reek of tobacco, cooking, undisturbed dust and blankets innocent of soap for fifty years did not distress him.

  The room was cluttered with a magpie’s hoard gathered from the carcases of ships and the discarded junk of attics and rubbish dumps. He lit a small oil lamp, shut himsel
f in for the night and began a long systematic scratch which he found infinitely pleasurable.

  Having satisfied the first demand of comfort he unlocked a heavy brass-bound sea chest and took out a bottle, calculating the contents against the wavering flame in the blackened glass casing. For some time he sat sipping at the nightcap from a tin mug.

  A brass ship’s clock hung on the peeling wall, but it no longer indicated time, so that the sound when it came could not be mistaken. A floorboard creaked, making the old man jerk his head to one side so that his better ear was towards the inner wall. There was someone in the next room, someone who was waiting just on the other side of the door. He listened for a full minute whilst his hand moved cautiously forward to grip the stick which had been propped against the table.

  ‘If that’s you, Jim Teague, you can come on out. I ain’t afraid on yer.’

  There was no answer to his call and he moved stealthily towards the door. With one hand on the latch he spoke again, whispering now.

  ‘Target? Is it Target Burrows come ’ome?’

  He pulled the latch so violently that he almost fell into the stale darkness beyond. Hands, strong as iron, gripped him by his shoulders and began to shake him as a dog might deal with a rat.

  11

  At Cheffin’s Farm

  ‘THERE IS A female party by the name of Weatherby askin’ for Mr Mortimer Kelsey, and she was kind enough to add would see her pronto.’

  Mr Lugg stood in the door of the dining room at The Hollies, a sombre apartment whose sage green walls were adorned by maple framed engravings from the works of Sir John Gilbert illustrating the plays of Shakespeare. Titania languished over her ass’s head and Falstaff caroused with thespian vigour.

  Morty was making a late breakfast whilst Mr Campion did his best to encourage the younger man’s indifferent appetite. He had removed the bandage but his head was still uncomfortably sore.