Cargo of Eagles

by Margery Allingham

  ‘But I’m afraid they are.’ Mr Campion was persistent. ‘I think you know just where the difference lies and that is why you are a frightened man. This letter breaks a pattern—doesn’t it?—a pattern which you understand. This letter is not a malicious piece of libel but a direct threat. I do hope you follow me.’

  Wishart pushed back his chair and straightened his shoulders.

  ‘You are talking in riddles. I don’t know you, sir, or I might suspect that you hoped to spring a trap. You have the bland air of eminent counsel dissecting some wretched incompetent in a witness box. Given a chance you would become hectoring. At this hour my senses may be impaired but I am not totally blind. I may see through a glass . . . but not darkly. I see with tolerable clarity, in fact. Tolerable clarity . . . tolerable. . . . I also behave with as much tolerance as I can muster. What the devil are you getting at?’

  Mr Campion accepted the challange.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘Dr Jones and her friends have received a round dozen of letters, all of them originating from somewhere in this district even if some were posted in London. They fall into groups. Each group suggests a type of writer—a disappointed venomous old woman—a man with some knowledge of what could damage a medical reputation—a canting religious hypocrite and so on. The police are interested because they are thinking in terms of conspiracy. I am interested because these letters suggest forgery. I think they are exercises in caricature—the work of a single dilettante.’ He waited to let the words sink in.

  ‘You enjoy little essays in forgery, don’t you, Mr Wishart? Think of your Cambridge friends, Colquhoun, Middlemass and Swinstead. Three dull men and all of them rich. Yet each of them produced an unlikely volume with remarkable literary qualities—very flattering to their vanity. I wonder who really wrote Mosaic to Machine or Mandragora Days or Oh, Mr Cromek? Odd books to keep on your shelves, Mr Wishart, yet there they are right behind your head sitting next to the fifth volume of Georgian Poetry in which you figure.’

  For a long minute the old man stared towards Campion looking through and beyond his visitor. He was still gripping the table with both hands and the muscles around his right eye had begun to twitch. Shocked and ill at ease, Morty watched from the shadows. Wishart broke the tension by picking up his tumbler and emptying it at a gulp.

  ‘I do not understand you,’ he said flatly. ‘And I do not propose to try. You force your company upon me and you make sly references to my friends. You accuse me by inference. Very well. I deny any part of the slander. Now go. Get out whilst I still have a hold of my temper. Go! Go! Go!’

  Campion shook his head.

  ‘Not just yet. We have a point to settle between us. I’m not concerned with the original letters because I rather think there won’t be any more of them. But if I’m wrong and there is a recurrence then I shall dig deeper, I shall ask questions about years in your life which ought to be forgotten. It—er—it could be extremely embarrassing, don’t you think? Jonah Woodrose wouldn’t care for it either.’

  Wishart frowned in an effort to focus his eyes. ‘Jonah?’

  ‘Yes, Jonah Woodrose. These letters were his idea, I fancy, at the start. His pressure at your elbow. Your execution, your inventive skill. There was even a touch of his style in some of them, but I don’t suppose he appreciated that subtlety.’

  Campion’s tone was quiet, almost conversational. Wishart did not respond for some time but sat immobile with bowed head until the silence in the room was oppressive. Suddenly he seized the paper on the table before him and crushed it fiercely.

  ‘This is not my handiwork. I deny your right to say so. I deny every part of your accusation. I could never have written this in a thousand years. You cannot hold me responsible.’

  Mr Campion sighed. ‘Oh, but I don’t,’ he murmured. ‘This is by a new hand, someone who has decided to take over from you. Someone who is not your partner or your master. Have you any idea who it is? Jonah knows. I think Mossy Ling knew. It is possible that Hector Askew stumbled on the truth. Have you heard from James Teague lately, or Target Burrows, Mr Wishart?’

  The poet shook his head. His voice had become a whisper and the fire had left him. He looked old and exhausted.

  ‘Teague . . . Burrows. They are dirty words hereabouts. It’s twenty—no, nearer thirty years since I saw either of them. Now they or their ghosts are walking again. Mossy Ling said he saw a ghost and suddenly he is dead. Whatever Jonah saw was real enough to frighten the living daylights out of him. I saw him tonight but he told me nothing. Nothing at all, except that he’d had enough. He knows when he’s beaten. But you’ll get no answers from him if you cross-question from here to eternity. As for myself I know nothing of any value so I can neither help nor hinder in whatever mischief is afoot. In any case I am too full of years—perhaps that is why I have been left alone.’

  Morty at least was convinced. The nerves around the poet’s eye continued to twitch, emphasising his age and underlining the unease he was not attempting to hide. His face was still ruggedly handsome but it was the mould of an actor accustomed to playing strong roles caught in a revealing moment of weakness. It invited pity but not sympathy.

  Yet he had fenced very neatly, making no sort of admission, giving no fact or hint which could be held against him. He sat very still for some time and then as if jerking himself back to reality took up the bottle and poured out three fingers of brandy. The voice was steady now.

  ‘I shall not court a rebuff by asking you to join me. We each of us have our own touchstones against . . . calamity. This is mine.’

  Campion stood up. ‘Just one other question before you apply your remedy, Mr Wishart. You know this area down to the last puddle. Give me an expert opinion. Could a man hide here for a fortnight and not be seen? A man must eat, drink, sleep soundly. Could it be done without friends?’

  The old man took a long, reflective drink. Finally he shook his head.

  ‘I’ve given some thought to that. The answer must be no. The police have been very active, poking their noses into cellars, which are very rare hereabouts since the land is only just above sea level, and exploring every shed and barn in the place. There are no priest holes that I know of and even an undiscovered hay loft presupposes an accomplice. Teague had a few real friends, rascals and mountebanks like himself, but most of them are dead and the remainder are gone long since. Jonah Woodrose is certainly no longer among them. As to his women—and there were several of those—the survivors are middle-aged by now and more likely to betray than to hide. Burrows was a shifty, foul mouthed bully who made nothing but enemies whilst he lived amongst us. Every man would play Judas to him given the chance.’

  ‘Yet their ghosts are walking, as Mossy Ling remarked.’

  Wishart drank again. ‘You’re such a clever theorist. Mr Campion, that I marvel you don’t answer your own question. Where would a sailor man hide—a man who knew the coast better than any chart?’

  ‘At sea, presumably.’

  ‘Just so. At sea. There are three out of work tramps lying up in the main channel, each with a couple of men aboard to watch the riding lights. A paying guest would never be found if you searched all day. Not that I commend the idea to you. Burrows has a very odd sense of humour as I recall. It would amuse him to watch a man drown.’

  14

  Conference

  SERGEANT THROSTLE HAD a number of questions on his mind but the one which lay uppermost was a question of demarcation. During his patient and astutely professional enquiries he had unearthed a number of family secrets but at every point he found himself tempted to follow leads which beckoned far beyond the orbit of his official instructions. Somewhere in the untidy ragbag of facts, rumours and personalities lay a thread which must bring him to the truth about Hector Askew, but each likely strand, if judiciously pulled, led to an area in which he had no authority. Superintendent Gravesend, reappearing briefly after Sibling’s misadventure, had decided that it was not related to the main enquiry but wa
s the work of tearaways from London and, in Saltey at any rate, a matter for the County police.

  He had returned to London leaving the field uncomfortably clear. Throstle, who found his disapproval of his chief’s methods deepening into a cordial dislike, was suspicious of any facile diagnosis. Every event of the past ten days had convinced him that the motive for Askew’s murder could not be simplified into a single sentence. As he said himself, he was not a member of the Coincidence Club and there were too many apparently unrelated happenings in the village for his peace of mind. But the common factor, if there was one, eluded him.

  He now sat in the neo-Georgian police station at Nine Ash in a pleasant green and white office which still smelt of paint, a pile of folders on the table in front of him, awaiting the arrival of Inspector Branch of the local C.I.D. with whom he had made an appointment. The idea of the conference had considerable merits from Throstle’s standpoint for the old man who was due for retirement at Michaelmas was less touchy in matters of protocol than the rest of his colleagues and indeed was the only one to whom his heart warmed.

  Branch had not earned the nickname ‘Jumbo’ for his figure alone; his long and incorruptible memory was considered to be more reliable than most filing systems. He came into the room so quietly that Throstle who was organising his notes did not hear him and the big full blooded man was sitting at the opposite side of the table before he raised his head.

  ‘Shopping list, eh?’ Branch had a strong East Anglian accent and the appearance of a substantial farmer. A cherubic fringe of golden curls still decorated the dome of his forehead and a healthy growth of hair sprouted from the upper part of his cheekbones.

  ‘That’s the way, boy. Sort it out, then we’ll know where we stand. A powerful lot of thrashing around there’s been but not a single rat has put his nose out of the stack. Mustn’t let ’em stay in their holes.’

  Throstle snorted. ‘I’ve had a sniff at everyone I can find,’ he said. ‘And I’m no forrader. I know enough about Hector Askew’s private life to fill a book and very dull, dirty reading it makes. I know every scandal in Saltey for the past ten or twenty years and I think I could put a name to nearly every one of my letter writers. But there’s nothing that would stand up in a court of law and nothing to connect them with Askew. You’re right about my shopping list. Here’s item one—Askew’s past. Is there a point I’ve missed in this lot?’

  Throstle’s extensive file with its prim wording seemed to delight the Inspector. He thumbed through it, mouthing an occasional name and chuckling reminiscently. ‘Mavis Prentis . . . no . . . Prunella Wisdom, there’s a proper joke for you . . . Helen Price-Cattermole . . . wouldn’t waste powder and shot on her . . . you’ve done a thorough job. You could have ten for a penny if you ask me without any man in the country giving anything more than a hearty vote of thanks. Now, what about the property angle? That’s a subject people get wholly riled about if they’re crossed. Askews have always dealt in property and pretended they didn’t. Crompton Badger and Keene in Silver Street, which means old Sid Badger in fact, handle the business officially but he and the Askews are thicker than thieves. They have a regular method. Old Percy or the boy Hector run a place down to the sorrowing widow who is their client—say a house that’s too big for her now her husband’s dead. She takes their advice and sells out quick and cheap—Cromptons buy for an alleged client who’s just a nominee and they split the proceeds. It’s a dirty game and a man could make enemies by playing it. Thought of that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Throstle. It pleased him to be a little ahead of his mentor. ‘In the next folio. But it’s The Hollies I’m interested in. Askew was killed there and all the letters are aimed at scaring Dr Jones into selling. That suggests the Askews, but Hector’s death wouldn’t help or hinder the sale by a day if she decided to pull out. Then who could want the place and why? See page seven for my list of possibles.’ He paused while Branch turned the leaf and added ruefully, ‘They’re nearly all over seventy and all female, except for Jonah Woodrose and he has the most watertight alibi I’ve ever come across and I’ve broken a few in my time. I accept it, in fact. He’s out. Bringing me to a dead end so far.’

  Branch’s eyes twinkled. ‘Item two, to my way of thinking, is what you might call “A funny thing happened on my way to Mob’s Bowl”. Am I right?’

  ‘I have it down under “Unexplained Incidents”,’ said Throstle stiffly. ‘The broken glass. My man beaten up. Dr Jones’ young American friend walking round the place with the kind of black eyes you get from having been hit on the head. Jonah Woodrose showing signs of having been in a fight, probably in London if my information is accurate. And an old man called Mossy Ling has died suddenly of thrombosis apparently. There may be no connection but I’d like your opinion.’

  Throstle detailed his information. The careful accurate summary took some time and Inspector Branch opened his eyes very wide and pursed his lips as he listened. The London man. he decided, was rather brighter than he had first supposed.

  ‘All of this brings us to Teague and Burrows,’ he said at last. ‘That’s about the size of it. You’re wondering if they could be back in circulation?’

  ‘It’s just about on the cards.’

  Branch considered the proposition. ‘The last of the Pirates,’ he said at last, ‘Dashing Jim Teague and One-Eyed Target. Very romantic. That could be, I reckon, but somehow it makes a wonderful untidy fit. If there was loot on the barge Blossom and she did lay off the Bowl that time, then both of them should know where it is, for one wouldn’t trust the other and that’s for certain. I’d bet my pension on it. At most it was about six hundred quid, as I recall, and in pound notes which you couldn’t hope to pass today without a powerful lot of explaining. If anything else was hidden up near the Bowl, and I’m thinking of The Hollies in particular, Target who was never caught, never even charged, would have sneaked back and pinched it long since. If they’re both around they must have met up by now and what their game might be is anybody’s guess. I doubt they’re lying low in Saltey but there’s a lot of old tubs anchored out in the creek so we’ll lay on a search there, just to be certain. Teague has failed to report after coming out and Burrows is still wanted for questioning for his share in the raid twenty years ago.’

  ‘Someone has been throwing stones at the weathercock lately,’ remarked Throstle. ‘And that was Thomas Alfred Burrows’ trademark according to the locals. I don’t see why he should advertise himself.’

  ‘Nor don’t I.’ Branch laughed reminiscently. ‘You know why he used to do that? That old lantern on the sail lofts was used as a lookout post by Harry Morgan who used to be the Customs chap in these parts. He’d hide up there all day with his glasses to watch what came into the Bowl and where it came from. Target knew that, of course, and he used to fling him up one for luck whenever he came ashore. It was his way of cocking a snook and he was a wonderfully good shot with a stone. He could hit a man on the back of the head at twenty paces and half brain him but we could never catch him at it. He and Teague were the biggest villains for miles when it came to the smuggling business, but for all we could prove we might just as well have sat and twiddled our thumbs. Old Waters, who had The Foliage as it was called then, Septimus Kytie, Matt Parsley and Jonah Woodrose himself—they were all in the racket one way or another and the only man we ever caught was a yacht steward who came ashore there with a packet of heroin in ’37 and he was a poor silly foreigner from Kent.’

  ‘Smuggling.’ Throstle seized on the word. ‘Could it still be going on? Those tearaways who seem to make the Bowl their headquarters—could they be mixed up in the racket?’

  ‘They’re a nasty bunch of young hoodlums and one or two certainly use Purple Hearts if nothing worse.’

  He turned to a third file. ‘Three have records: Norman Catchpole, 20, mechanic, theft from employer. Ronald Lewis, 18, grievous bodily harm, and Desmond Riddler, 17, breach of the peace and offensive weapons, meaning razor blades. They mean anything to you?�
��

  ‘Trouble-makers,’ said Branch promptly. ‘They come from outside my baileywick, North London, Islington way, and organise punch-ups at the coastal resorts mostly just for the heck of it. But drugs in a big way? I doubt it. They wouldn’t be reliable enough, for to my way of thinking they haven’t a brain between them. Maybe someone’s using them as carriers. It’s possible, but . . .’

  He paused and eyed Throstle over his glasses.

  ‘You’re a little off course, mister, aren’t you? Drugs—narcotics—that’s a job for the boys in the next department. Vice squad they call ’em now. Pass it on, man, pass it on. I doubt Hector Askew ever saw anything stronger than aspirin or cough lozenges in his life.’

  Throstle’s expression became obstinate. ‘I know where my manor ends,’ he said. ‘Officially, at any rate. But those young no-goods fit into the picture somewhere. They’re violent and there’s been violence.’

  As a concession to the conventions he added, ‘I’ll watch my step, though. Narcotics can have anything I turn up and welcome.’ He glanced down at his own notes and asked, almost as an afterthought, ‘Does the name Hamilton Dashwood mean anything to you?’

  It was a long shot and to his surprise the older man responded more respectfully than he had anticipated. Inspector Branch sat back, brushed a cloud of cigarette ash from the furrows on his stomach, closed his eyes and began to recite from his celebrated filing system.

  ‘That could be a wonderfully smart question, Mr Throstle. H. Hamilton Dashwood, eh? Real name Henry Harvey Done—same initials—they often do that. Changed it quite legally by deed poll in 1947. Small time crook who used to hang round the halls in the days of variety shows. Occasional job as the chap they threw custard pie at. Robbed or swindled old ladies on the strength of being an actor. Did a bit of time for it, six months if I recall aright. Nothing known in the past five years, but he gets around—all along the coast from Southend to Yarmouth. Travels for a small firm in Ipswich who make carnival novelties, streamers, funny hats and so on. Short wave radio ham but registered and apparently all above board. We keep tabs on him every so often, when we can spare the time.’ He patted his waistcoat absently. ‘Yes, you might get someone from your end to look him over.’