Mr. Campion thrust his hands deep in his pockets and his chin sank into his collar. “There’s no proof whatever against him,” he said.
“There never is against a big man in this sort of business.” Oates spoke bitterly. “But I’ll get him,” he added grimly. “In the end.”
Campion glanced towards the drive. There was still no sign of police cars. The gardener on duty by the area had his back towards the dreadful sight within it, and was rubbing his neck with a coloured handkerchief. Neither Holly nor his quarry had yet appeared. It was all very sunny and ugly and comfortable.
“You can’t hold him,” said Campion at last. “Not on present evidence?”
“No, of course I can’t.” For Oates the voice was harsh. “But on the other hand I can’t lose him.”
“How do you mean?”
Oates laughed savagely. “A man in his position with a name like his and a job like his can’t hide himself in a country this size in its present restricted state,” he said. “That’s the one break I’ve got. All England is a cage for him until I get the proof I want. There’s no way out for him, none at all.”
Campion could think of one, but he did not mention it. The emotional effect upon him of the new developments went deeper than he cared to admit. It was not so much that Johnny Carados was an old acquaintance as that he was a figure long admired. Treachery from him was more than treachery; there was insult in it and betrayal. As the reflection spread through his mind, others followed it, and he remembered those other well-loved figures whom the war had revealed unworthy of the general pride. Was Johnny Carados to join that dismal parade? The question so shook him that it was with relief that he saw Holly striding across the grass toward them. The Inspector was excited, and the essential policeman in him was very evident.
“Two things, Mr. Oates,” he said. “First I’ve been on to the Yard and spoken to Superintendent Yeo. Then I’ve had it out with Carados. He sticks to his story, by the way; it’s straightforward and I can’t shake him. He seems genuinely upset about the girl—sort of stunned. Also he says he’s got to get back to his duty.”
“Well, he can’t at the moment, that’s certain.”
“I’ve told him so, but he says he must be back on his station by tonight. He says it’s vital.”
The Chief allowed his lips to form several words before he chose the one he wanted. “Do you see any way we can hold him, Holly?”
“No, sir. Seeing who he is we can’t step over the line anywhere. He swears he’ll be back for the inquest if it’s any time after noon tomorrow.”
Oates shrugged his shoulders. “There’s nothing for it, is there?”
“I don’t think so, sir.” Holly was as gloomy as his superior officer. “I don’t think he can get away though. He thinks he’s safe and he can’t make a run for it. Anyway, we’ve got nothing on him as far as the killing is concerned. We saw it happen. If we hadn’t been there . . .”
“Ah, but we were,” said Oates. “We were, and we weren’t quick enough or that poor girl could have told us something.”
“Poor girl, sir?” Holly was startled at this commiseration for the first cold-blooded murderer he had ever been privileged to witness in action.
Oates noticed it and was unimpressed. “I’m always a little sorry for anyone who completely loses his nerve,” he said, adding irrelevantly, “especially if they’re as valuable as that poor woman could have been to us. No, we’ll have to let him go again, but it’s the last time, Holly, the very last time. What about Yeo? He’s not too pleased with us, I expect.”
“I think he felt we might have waited for him, sir.”
“So we ought to have done. I could give myself the sack for that,” the Chief spoke complacently. “But we’ve justified ourselves. We got here just at the right time, You told him?”
“Yes, Mr. Oates, I did. And he’s got something. They’ve been busy, and they’ve found the storage firm.”
“Really?” Oates was astounded. “I’d have bet on it that they were entirely fictitious.”
“No, they’re not. They exist all right. It’s very small, only one little office, but it’s been established some time. There’s one elderly woman clerk who does what work there is, and according to her story the business changed hands just before the war when it was in very low water. It was taken over by a Mr. Jesso who brought in a lot of accounts of a special kind—evacuation of furniture to the country.”
“Good God!” said Oates piously, “it’s coming unstuck at last. Have they got Jesso?”
“No, not yet, sir. Apparently things are very quiet now, and have been for some time. He comes in very seldom and the woman doesn’t know where he lives. She’s quite honest, apparently. But they have got the books with all the addresses of the various warehouses, barns and halls and other country storage places. They’re getting on to that now. And if we’re right—”
“If we’re right, we’ll recover the blessed lot. This is terrific, Holly. Any more?”
The Chief Inspector did not speak immediately. A faint smile played round his small mouth. “There’s no proof of this yet,” he said at last, “but they’ve got a description of Jesso from the woman and it is rather significant. Superintendent Yeo told me to repeat it to you in her words. She says he’s a particularly small man with a very deep voice and that he wears a small, pointed beard.”
“Gold,” said Campion abruptly.
Holly nodded to him approvingly. “That’s what the Superintendent thought. He’s arranging for a chance meeting between the two.”
The Chief whistled. “We’re getting very close to Carados,” he said.
Mr. Campion stood thinking. He was remembering the details of the last interview he had had with Gee-gee Gold less than twelve hours before on the landing just outside Theodore Bush’s bedroom. ‘Johnny is sans reproche’, he had said, and had meant it. What exactly did that signify? Had Gold seen Johnny as a leader to be followed blindly, or was it possible that he might have seen him as a cloak? The Chief’s brisk voice cut into his meditations.
“Ah, here are the cars at last,” he was saying. “That civilian is the doctor, I suppose. Now we can get on.”
He and Holly strode forward to meet the newcomers, but Mr. Campion did not accompany them. He found a small uncomfortable concrete seat between two atrocious Germanic gnomes, and sat down. He had had his fill of casualties and was not interested in the police doctor’s test for death. Death was there all right. Nor did he wish to hear again the endless formalities, the apologies, and the explanations, the interviews and the sworn statements. He sat thinking that it was nearly forty-eight hours now since he had first missed his train and that there was still more trouble to come to delay him. The conviction was growing upon him that he had a duty to perform, one which demanded all his resource and experience There was the tremendous likelihood of failure to consider, and the strong possibility of another eventuality, even more unpleasant.
He was still sitting there, hunched up in the bright sun-light, when Johnny came out of the mock-Gothic porch. He stood for a moment looking round for his car and Campion rose and went to meet him. Carados was already at the driving-wheel when the other man came up. There was a change in him, but it was not the one Campion had expected. He was no longer dazed but was still expressionless, and behind it all there was an air of determination, a grimness, almost a courage. His clear-cut, terrifyingly intelligent face was pale but he was quite steady and his voice was casual.
“Hello, Campion,” he said. “Sorry to leave all this to you, but it can’t very well be helped.” He paused, aware that the words were too light altogether. “It’s shaken me, you know,” he said. “I’d known her for eight years.”
“Do you know,” said Mr. Campion slowly, “I rather doubt that.”
Carados peered at him through the open driving window. “Yes,” he admitted. “There’s a lot in that. It’s terrifying to think that you can see people every day and never know them. She was mad at
the end, I think: utterly insane. Did you see her? Yet I came down with her this morning and never noticed anything. I didn’t even think about her. She seemed just the same, efficient, you know, jolly, and unget-at-able.” His voice was betraying him a little, now, the edges wearing thin.
“She was insane with fear,” said Campion.
The man in the car shivered. “God, how horrible!” he said.
Campion took a deep breath. “I don’t want to butt in,” he began wretchedly, “but is it absolutely necessary that you should get back just at this particular moment?”
“Afraid so.” Again the curious, reserved expression showed for an instant in the blue eyes. “I must. I knew I had to get back, that’s why I came down in the night. I shan’t touch London; I shall go straight from here. I’ve known about the date some time, it’s vital, I’m afraid.”
“But I thought that if all had gone well you were getting married this morning?”
It might have been supposed that the words had escaped Campion by accident. He coloured slightly, and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s nothing to do with me.”
Carados ignored the entire incident. His reserved expression deepened and he changed the subject.
“I’d better get on,” he said. “Work to do. It’s a hell of a life.”
“Yes,” said Campion, and added with an innocence not altogether natural in him, “Doing any flying yourself?”
The other man pressed the starter. “Now and again, you know,” he said above the purr of the engine. “They say one gets too old for it, but I can’t bring myself to believe it.”
Campion held the car door as if he would restrain the machine by force. “I’ll see you at the inquest,” he said.
“Eh?” said Johnny Carados. “Oh, yes. Right ho.”
“I’ll see you at the inquest,” Campion repeated. “I’m relying on you, and I think you’ll come.”
“Do you?” said Carados. “What a queer chap you are, Campion. I wonder why you do? Good-bye. If I can, you know, if I can.”
He let in the clutch very gently, and the car rolled slowly away shaking off Mr. Campion’s restraining hand without roughness.
The other man stood looking after it as it disappeared among the trees. From the house behind him came the sound of voices and Oates and the poker-backed Chief Constable appeared in the porch. Very slowly, Mr. Campion turned to join them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS ALMOST closing time at the Minoan, which, in wartime, expected its clients to eat early and be thankful. The little room on the first floor which had seen so much of the story already was well shuttered, and the light hanging from the ceiling made a bright pool on the red table-cloth. Half in and half out of that pool sat Mr. Pirri, while Stavros lurked in the dusk behind him. Both partners were unusually quiet.
Mr. Campion, whose cheek-bones were beginning to show prominently beneath dark circles behind his spectacles, sat before them.
“It’s a fair offer,” he said.
Pirri spread out his wide hands. “We’ve told you all we know,” he said, his shrill, angry voice rising.
“All right.” Mr. Campion rose. “Party’s over. We’ll go the long way round. I can identify the taxi and I can swear you drove it and attacked me. My word may not convict you but it’ll give you a hell of a run for your money.”
The full brown eyes nearest him flickered. “That will be inconvenient,” suggested Mr. Pirri.
“Very,” Campion agreed. “Police everywhere worrying everybody. There must be somebody who saw the cab go out? And someone knows where the juice came from. That should be traceable these days.”
Pirri reflected, and presently his teeth appeared in a brief smile. “You are not a vindictive man?”
“I’m prepared to forget and forgive a little matter between friends.”
“Very good.”
“I agree. Magnificent, as far as it goes. Pirri, when you kidnapped me, what were you looking for?”
He did not reply, but Stavros touched him.
“What does it matter?” he murmured. “Both poor girls are dead . . .”
“Women!” said Pirri, with sudden fury. “Always you think of nothing but women. I alone do the work. It is I who concentrate on the business. But for me we should be in the street. And what happens when I exert meself—when I go perhaps a little too far? You try to knife me because you think I have attacked your woman. I who did nothing but strive to help our business.”
He turned to Campion almost in tears. “These restrictions, this scarcity,” he said. “How can one progress? How can one supply one’s patrons? At last people are willing to spend and I—I have nothing to sell.”
In any other situation his rage must have had an element of the comic. His entire energy went into the exposure of his intolerable grievances. They poured from him in an avalanche of emotion.
“Since I was a child, a boy, a little helpless boy, I work to sell, and no one has a sixpence,” he repeated. “And now they wave five-pound notes at me and what have I to give them? Nothing at all. It has made me a little bit mad, you know, and naturally.”
Mr. Campion could see any brief explanation of the relationship between scarcity and cash would fall upon that soil in which such seeds proverbially wither and die. Pirri was more than ordinarily infuriated.
“It was an opportunity,” he said, “and I went for it with my head bald. At first I was circumspect; afterwards I let it get me, you understand. It obsessed me, it made me wild.”
Campion was abominably tired. His physical weariness was hampering and he pulled himself together irritably. He saw there was no chance of getting a coherent story here and that he would have to rely on questions if he were to find the one vital lead which would take him to the truth. He made a guess.
“Mrs. Stavros obtained a few bottles of Les Enfants Doux from Miss Chivers, and brought them to you to sell,” he suggested. “Is that right?”
“That was the beginning,” agreed Stavros wretchedly. “My wife came in here, sold me three bottles for a fair price and said there was a chance of getting me some more. It was all in the way of business, perfectly fair. And then,” he added with sudden fire, “then, Pirri, you got hold of it.”
“And why not?” said Pirri fiercely. “I sold one to an old customer one night. He sent for me. ‘Pirri,’ he said, ‘this is superb. You’re undercharging me, I bet you don’t know that’—some such pleasantry. He made me taste it and I saw it was indeed excellent, and I realized I had made a discovery. Here was a chance at last; a real chance of making a little profit.”
He spread out his hands again and his long, miserable face was pathetic in its resentment. “We were acting with complete honesty. Stavros found a good client, a nice American boy with plenty of money. We were doing nothing wrong. We offered him good stuff and he had the cash to pay for it. He said he would buy all we had and would give a little party, maybe. Very satisfactory. Then that Theodore Bush came round enquiring. But we do not want to drive any bargains, we have our client already fixed. All is arranging itself very well, and then—this—this Mrs. Moppet.”
“No.” Stavros protested. He was pleading rather than objecting. “Do not speak of her so. Poor girl, she’s dead.”
Pirri raised his eyes to heaven, where, presumably, he received inspiration, for his better nature asserted itself.
“I regret it,” he said, “I’m sorry for you. I sympathize, but I have a bitter heart and I was so wild.”
“You thought she was double-crossing you, I take it,” said Mr. Campion.
“Naturally,” said Pirri calmly. “She told so many stories. First she could get it and there was a raising of the price; then she couldn’t and I raised the price. Another day passed; still she couldn’t. More talk, more persuasion from us both. Still it was impossible. On and on it went until she was one day quite definite. It could not be. She could get no more of the wine and wanted to take back what we already had. I became incensed,
I admit it. I thought, I brooded, I persecuted myself, and at last I decided.”
“You formed a plan,” translated Mr. Campion for his own benefit.
“I formed a plan,” agreed Pirri obligingly. “I said I would follow her and I would frustrate her. I would get what is mine by right, and I did. For a day and a night I followed her; she was here on Sunday quarrelling with Stavros about the stuff, and when she left I was behind her.”
“My hat!” said Mr. Campion in astonishment. “In that cab?”
“Why not? It is an excellent disguise, a taxi-cab.”
“So I should imagine. Rather dangerous, wasn’t it?”
Pirri shrugged his shoulders. “I was wild,” he said again as if that were sufficient explanation.
Campion considered. “You must have used that cab before,” he said at last.
Pirri looked at him coldly. “We speak now only about the business in which we are interested,” he observed.
“Yes, of course. All right. I was only checking up. And so you watched her. Where did she go?”
“To Carados Square. I waited there. I waited all night.”
Campion sat up. “You waited all night?” he repeated.
“Certainly. I was determined.”
“Did you see anybody?”
“No one of importance. She went into the house and a long time after another woman came out; a big woman, young, healthy, strong.”
“Miss Chivers?”
“I imagine so. I don’t know. She carried nothing, that was all I saw. No one else went in or out until the morning. I went on waiting. About nine o’clock the big girl came back and afterwards a lady called with some flowers, letting herself in with a key. She had been there for some time when the first woman went out again. I was tired, sleepless, hungry, but I was enraged. Still I waited.”
He made it an intensely dramatic story, but looked at it all, as far as Mr. Campion could see, from entirely the wrong angle.
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