“You’re sure you only saw these two women?”
“I’m sure. And neither of them was carrying anything heavier than flowers. Imagine my exasperation.”
“I think I can—just. And then?”
“Then the older woman came out once more. She was in distress, I could see that. She went across the square on foot. The morning passed and lunch-time, and I was in danger of discovery. But I was so angry that I persisted and at last, towards evening, I was rewarded, or so I most tragically thought.” Pirri was working up to his story, and was putting his soul into it. “I saw the elder woman return. Again she let herself in with her key. After a while an ambulance drove up. In my position I could not see what was loaded into it, and I dared not get out to watch, but I thought I knew. ‘This is a ruse,’ I said, ‘and a clever one. That Moppet has seen me from the windows, and has guessed why I am here. She’s attempting to deceive me but I shall not be deceived.’ By this time I was in a fever, you understand. My resentment, my hunger, and my weariness were on top of me. I thought to myself, ‘Here is my chance—’” He paused and peered at Campion across the table.
“You comprehend my state of mind?”
To Mr. Campion’s surprise, he found that he did. The picture was horrific but convincing.
“Yes,” he said, “I do. You followed the ambulance, I suppose?”
“I did, and as it turned into the cul-de-sac off Piccadilly the lights were against me.” Pirri’s disgust was vivid. “I dared not disobey them for fear of being questioned. By the time I and another taxi-cab entered Bottle Street, the ambulance was empty and unattended. Again I waited. Many people came to the door, some of whom I recognized, and I felt ‘Ah, I am getting warm. It is to be all right. My time will come’.”
Mr. Campion suddenly saw the end of the story, and despite his exhaustion, nearly burst out laughing. “You thought Madame Stavros had sold me the wine and that it was in my two wooden cases?”
Pirri leaned forward. His shirt-sleeves rode up his bony arms and his face was woebegone. “You have my regrets,” he said, “my deep regrets. You suffered, I know it. I could not revive you in the garage, but I had to take you to a little place I use sometimes where you could recover at your leisure. You were found there in the morning. I’m sorry; you were badly treated—but even you admit that the dirty laugh is on me.”
In the circumstances it was most handsomely said, and Mr. Campion appreciated it. His smile escaped him. “I’m almost sorry you were disappointed,” he said.
“I was not disappointed, I was annihilated,” said Pirri. “After such a vigil my chagrin was unspeakable.”
Stavros turned towards the door. “You will both excuse me,” he said briefly. “I do not care, you see.”
The note he struck was unexpected and Pirri was almost sobered.
“I’m sorry for him,” he said as the door closed behind him, “but most deeply I am sorry for myself. That Moppet was a difficult woman, a worrying, nagging, importunate woman. She bothered someone so much they killed her, I expect.”
Mr. Campion nodded. “I fancy you’re right there,” he murmured. “That’s just about what did happen. Someone started to sell her that wine before they realized what it was. Then they tried to stave her off, she discovered there was a secret and tried to blackmail the stuff out of them, the secret was more important than she realized, they were desperately afraid and they killed her.”
“When you say ‘they’ you mean Miss Chivers,” said Pirri.
“Why do you say that?”
The restaurateur rose. “It follows. No one else was there.”
There was a silence between them until Pirri said finally:
“It is a bad business, but not my affair. After I followed you to Bedbridge Row I gave up.”
Mr. Campion stirred. He felt frustrated. Pirri’s story was enlightening so far as it went, but it took him no further. He got up wearily. “Thank you,” he said. “That is the end then. You can rely on me not to raise the subject again.”
Pirri went to the sideboard without speaking and produced glasses and a bottle. “You think trade gets better soon, eh?” he enquired blandly, as he proffered the drink and raised his own.
“Here’s to it, anyway,” said Mr. Campion, and still had the glass at his lips when the door edged open and a bleary, unforgettable eye peered at him through the aperture.
“I was afraid you’d gorn, sir,” said old Fred, betraying his vigil by his very timeliness.
Pirri swore at him but half-heartedly. Evidently the labour shortage was another curb on that urgent but single-minded spirit. Like the country man he was, old Fred waited until the little squall had blown over him. Then he got himself cautiously into the room.
“That young lady,” he began, addressing Campion as an old fellow-conspirator, “the one who was going to marry the lord, and who went about with the American officer, and came here with you—”
“Mrs. Shering. What about her?”
“Well, she’s downstairs with him now. They’ve been having a bit of a meal together.”
“With Lieutenant Evers?”
“That’s right, and they’d like a word with you. We’ve been shut about half an hour and they’re on their own down there, waiting. I thought I’d mention it.”
He stood hopefully, his head held sideways, and one eye, bright and enquiring as a goose’s fixed on the other man’s face, avid for any betraying signal there.
“Right. I’ll go down,” said Campion, disappointing him. “How did they know I was here?”
Fred looked mystified. “Can’t think,” he said, “unless I might have let it slip out.”
It was so well done that Mr. Campion was on the verge of being deceived. He laughed and went down, Fred shuffling behind him, outwardly at any rate as casual, as ineffectual and as disinterested as an old brown leaf in the wind.
Susan and Don were at a corner table alone in the restaurant. As usual they were engrossed in each other, and Campion envied them. He came up without them noticing him, but having tapped Don on the shoulder he was received joyously.
“Say, you’re the man we want.” The boy’s voice rose on the last word. “Sit down, will you?”
He was deliriously happy; they both were. Delight radiated from them in a warm and generous cloud. They sat and glowed at him, so that he caught the infection and laughed. “Things pretty good?” he enquired.
“Good? They’re better than that. Congratulate us, we’re all set, we’re getting married.” Don’s voice was playing tricks with him, squeaking on unexpected words. Susan nodded; she looked frightened by her own content.
“It’s all right. We’ve got an O.K. I can’t quite realize it—it’s a sort of miracle.”
Mr. Campion took off his spectacles, always with him a sign of concentration. “Fine,” he said. “Splendid. Just the job. How come?”
“Oh, it’s Johnny, of course.” She was shyly proud. “He’s—he’s pretty jolly good.”
“He’s wonderful,” said Don with that intense admiration which dies too young. “He’s a great guy.”
Mr. Campion saw a piece of bread on the table and ate a pellet of it absently. He felt slightly sick.
“Oh yes?” he said. “What’s he done? Made a graceful gesture?”
“I’ll say. But what a gesture!” Don was enthusiastic. “We got a note today. It was sent to Susan, but it was written to me, too. I’m going to ask Susan to let me show it to you. Can I, Susan?”
“I’d like you to. I’d like everybody in the world to see it,” she said, adding sweetly, “everybody nice.”
Campion took the sheet of notepaper which was stamped with the address of a famous club. He held it steady with an effort, and old Fred, lurking in the background and watching his face with an experienced yokel eye, felt that perhaps he was getting something for his trouble after all. The writing was firm and very well formed, both masculine and graceful.
My dear Susan and Don,
Wh
en you are genuinely in love and you’re very young and you’re at war, the only thing to do is to get married at once and get some kids. Don’t let any consideration on earth stand in your way. I mean this, and if it sounds didactic, then it’s because I feel I’m in a position to be didactic to you two.
I think you’ll want an explanation of this direction (and it is a direction, chaps, don’t get me wrong) from me especially at this moment, i.e. the evening before ‘the wedding day’. You, Susan, will want to know if I love you. The answer to that is, of course I do, who could help it, but (if you don’t understand this, Don will be able to explain it, I think) the feeling I had for old Tom Shering was different, but very, very much stronger. Since you’re the girl I know you are, Susan, you won’t think me unduly ungallant for this, and as for you, Don, you’ll follow me, I fancy.
So there you are, my dears, get on with it. Good luck, and if by chance I don’t get an opportunity to dance at your fête don’t misunderstand me.
Yours ever, and I mean that,
John.
P.S. I took the liberty of spying out Don’s reputation and reputed assets. Both are impressive. There again, Don will follow me if you don’t, Susan. Love, my sweetie.
Campion put the paper down. Both young faces were turned to him eagerly. “It’s so honest,” said Susan.
“It’s so strong,” said Don.
Susan laid her hand over the boy’s. “I’ll always love Johnny as I do now,” she said. “Ninety-five parts pure admiration. The only thing I wish he hadn’t said was that he might not dance at our wedding.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Don easily. “That’s just the Service. You get that uncertain feeling about promising to be anywhere at any given time. That’s O.K.”
Mr. Campion got up. He did his best, in their delirium, they helped him by not observing him too closely. After the congratulations had been repeated and the adieux said, he went out and old Fred watched him go with wistful curiosity.
As Campion stepped out into the dark, he breathed deeply as if he needed the air. Miserably he looked up into the sky. It was a clear curtain, threadbare with stars—a wonderful night for flying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE COACH AND Horses, which as Yeo had said was at the wrong end of Early Street, was a modest little pub. It nestled shyly under the wing of a Baptist Chapel, and Mr. Campion found it with twenty minutes to spare. As he entered the neat bar with the nostalgic smell, his heart sank. There was no sign of the familiar square figure with the bullet head. He was resigning himself to the prospect of a further journey when an old-fashioned barmaid with a smile and sunset hair asked him if he was looking for anybody.
“You are tired, aren’t you?” she said. “Wait a minute.” She put her head round a door behind the bar and there was a brief delay before a face appeared at a small window between a museum-piece of a bottle of Chartreuse and two dummy magnums. It disappeared again, and the woman turned to Campion.
“This way, ducky,” she said, raising a flap in the counter. “I thought you looked like a friend of his. He’s all alone. I’ll bring you both a ‘special’ in a moment.”
Mr. Campion felt comforted. For the first time since his return to England he felt certain that he was at home. He passed behind the bar, through the red curtains with the ball fringe and came to a small, hot room with a fire and a hanging alabaster lampshade. The Superintendent was sitting at the table, his collar loosened, his spectacles on his nose, an Evening News neatly folded into a wide wafer in his hands, and a tankard at his elbow.
Campion surveyed him with open satisfaction.
“Got your boots off too?” he enquired vulgarly.
Yeo raised one eyebrow. “These are my unofficial headquarters,” he explained. “Take a pew. I was hoping you’d come in. They tell me you’re a wonderful marksman with a flowerpot.” He permitted himself the ghost of a sniff. “Lucky they had you with them. Considering the rank of the personnel involved, not a very creditable arrest, in my opinion, for what it’s worth.”
Mr. Campion sank down into a chair with a deep leather lap, and lay back gratefully.
“It wasn’t too tidy,” he agreed, “but the whole thing was utterly unexpected.”
Yeo looked virtuous. “They always used to tell me that nothing was ever unexpected to a good cop,” he said smugly. “The old man had his gun with him too, didn’t he? Still,” he added with growing generosity, “I don’t blame the old so-and-so. I’d rather he had his job than me. God love us, what a shine the influential chap can kick up. I saw some of it, and I was glad to get the Chief back this afternoon.”
“Whom are you talking about?”
“That perishing Admiral.” Yeo was nearly respectful. “He’s put the cat among the pigeons all right. Questions, chits, memos coming down every two minutes. You’d think we were trying to hush something up, not sweating our guts out (if you’ll excuse me), to clear the mess up. I told you this case was going to be unlucky for policemen. However, we’re well away now, thank God; things are moving.”
“Are they?” The note of hopefulness was apparent in the words and the Superintendent shook his head.
“All in the same way, I’m afraid,” he said. “Sorry, old man, I can see how you feel in a way, but the thing is too clear. It’s rolling down on Carados like a thunder-storm. He’s just out of it at the moment, but it can’t last much longer. It’s sweeping in on him.”
Mr. Campion moved impatiently. “What about Gold?”
“Oh, we’ve got him.” Yeo spoke with quiet satisfaction. “A pretty little job of Pelly’s this afternoon. Gold and the woman met, as arranged; she recognized him and spoke to him and he gave himself away. It was as easy as that—no fuss, no fireworks, no jumping through the window, just a straight arrest done in the proper way. It doesn’t take us much forrader, though.”
“Oh, why?”
“Because he was merely working behind the woman Chivers. I’ve seen his statement and I’ve had a look at him this evening. There’s no doubt about it, you can tell it. I’ve seen it happen again and again in this case. He knew he was working for Chivers and he wasn’t sure whom she was working for. He guessed, perhaps, but he didn’t know. Every single one of them has been like that. We shall work out the connection between Gold and the others we’ve already got in the bag, but we shan’t find anything to take him close to anyone in the opposite direction, except for the woman. I know, I’ve seen it before.”
Mr. Campion remained lying back in the chair; his eyes were closed behind his spectacles. “Quick work,” he said at last.
“It was.” Yeo accepted honour where he felt it was due. “We got the firm’s books early this morning and I sent the boys out to the addresses right away. The only thing in a case like this is to make a big swoop everywhere before any information can leak out. The reports have been coming in ever since. There’s half the treasure in England, or that’s what it feels like, scattered about in safe little hide-outs all over the country. This is a feather in our cap, however they treat us, I will say that.”
“It is.” Campion was serious in his praise. “As an organization I suppose you’re capable of putting on a greater speed than anyone in the world, except, perhaps, the Russian Army.”
“That’s right, for all our old flat feet,” said Yeo, and he chuckled with pleasure. “We don’t get many bouquets except from foreigners, and I can’t say I mind one now and again.”
Mr. Campion returned to the problem. “You don’t think Miss Chivers could have been doing it alone?” he suggested. “Using Carados’s name, but in reality playing a—a lone hand?”
Yeo met his eyes squarely. “That be damned for a tale,” he said inelegantly. “No, I don’t. Apart from everything else she hadn’t the nerve, and she hadn’t the size, if you get me. She couldn’t keep her hands off a few odd bottles which she thought were negligible. When things began to go wrong she lost her head, started killing people, and finally broke her own wretched neck
in her panic. No, the bloke we want isn’t her sort. His head is like ice, and he keeps his hands good and clean.”
The argument was too convincing altogether. Campion was forced to face it. The sinking fear in his heart grew.
The barmaid came in with their drinks, accepted an arch endearment from the Superintendent with tolerant kindness, and left them to it. They sat for some time without speaking.
“There’s a lot I don’t quite see about that first killing,” observed Campion at last.
Yeo grinned. “There’s a lot there no one will ever see,” he said. “There’ll be an open verdict when the inquest is resumed and it’ll go down on that list of unsolved murders they hold against us. She did it though.”
“Oh, yes, she did it.” The thin man spoke slowly. “The Stavros woman was a pest; she got it into her head that Miss Chivers was holding out on her and I should say she just used everything. That must have been the time when the secretary began to lose her head. The nerve strain must have been colossal for some time, and the Stavros woman’s nagging was doubtless the last straw. Somehow she got her to the house and killed her. It was diabolically clever in one way, because if she hadn’t lost her nerve and smothered her but had left it to the chloral, it would have looked very much like suicide; while the fact that she was found where she was just before the wedding did suggest a reason, however unfounded.”
“Ah,” said Yeo. “And there may have been more justification in that than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
The Superintendent set down his glass. “As soon as I heard of the decease of the party this morning, I sent round to her rooms in Pimlico and took possession of all her papers,” he said. “The boys are still going through them. But just before I came out tonight, one of them brought me a collection of letters which I thought curious. They were all very much the same, all just a line or two, all written on the same date in different years, and they all said ‘Darling, thank you terribly, but you shouldn’t’, or words to that effect. They were signed ‘Moppet’ and they were addressed to Carados. The last one was dated last week. What do you know about that?”
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