There was a long, long pause.
Welkin stood sullenly in the middle of the room.
“Well?” he said at last. “What are you two going to do about it?”
Mr. Campion glanced at George, who was standing by the desk, an expression of incredulity amounting almost to stupefaction upon his mild face.
“If I might suggest,” he murmured, “I think he might take his family and spend a jolly Christmas somewhere else, don’t you? It would save a lot of trouble.”
Welkin held out his hand.
“Very well. I’ll take my diamonds.”
Mr. Campion shook his head. “As you go out of the house,” he said with a faint smile. “I shouldn’t like them to be—lost again.”
Welkin shrugged his shoulders. “You win,” he said briefly. I’ll go and tell Ada to pack.”
He went out of the room and as the door closed behind him George sat down.
“Hanged if I understand it…” he began, “his own son Kenneth was going to play Santa Claus, or at least seemed to expect to.”
Campion nodded. “I know,” he said. “If Kenneth had been playing Father Christmas and the same thing happened I think you would have found that the young man had a pretty convincing alibi established for him. You must remember the thief was not meant to be seen. He was only furnished with the costume in case he was.”
His host took the diamonds and turned them over. He was slow of comprehension.
“Why steal his own property?” he demanded.
Mr. Campion sighed. “You have such a blameless mind, George, that the wickedness of some of your fellow men must be a constant source of astonishment to you.” He paused. “Did you hear our friend Welkin say that he had insured this necklace?”
George’s eyebrows rose. “God bless my soul!” he said. “What a feller! In our house, too,” he added as an afterthought. “How did you spot it, Campion?”
Mr. Campion explained. “I knew Charlie Spring had a peculiarity but I couldn’t think what it was until I pulled that clock out of the bag. Then I remembered his penchant for the baroque and his sad habit of mistaking it for the valuable. That ruled out the diamonds. They wouldn’t be large enough for Charlie. When that came back to me, I recollected his other failing. He never works alone. When Mr. Spring appears on a job it always means he has a confederate in the house. With these two facts in my hand the rest was fairly obvious.”
“You spotted the pen was a dummy when Miss Hare came this afternoon?”
Mr. Campion grinned. “Well, it was odd the man didn’t use his own pen, wasn’t it?” he said. “When he ignored it, I guessed. That kind of cache is fairly common, especially in the States. They’re made for carrying valuables and are usually shabby plastic things which no one would steal in the ordinary way. However, there was nothing shabby about Mr. Welkin—except his behaviour.”
George poured out a couple of drinks. “Difficult feller,” he observed. “Didn’t like him from the start. No conversation. I started him on shootin’, but he wasn’t interested, mentioned huntin’ and he gaped at me, went on to fishin’ and he yawned. Couldn’t think of anything to talk to him about. Feller hadn’t any conversation at all.”
The Secret
The key fidgeted in the lock, grated, and was silent. Then the door swung quietly open, admitting a wave of cold air from the staircase of the block.
The man, who was hatless and curiously short of breath, stepped inside and, thrusting out his hand, groped for the familiar switch.
The next moment he was standing in his wet raincoat, gazing about him, at first in surprise and afterwards in the cold dismay of a realised fear.
After a few minutes of silent contemplation he pulled himself together and, glancing down at the key in his hand, tiptoed across the garish carpet to a small occasional table in the corner.
Having set the key in a prominent position on the polished surface, he granted the room a second glance, turned away shuddering and made for the door again.
He was a young man, but the strain of the last few months had told upon him and the bitter experience of the past few minutes had not helped.
His brown eyes were darker than they had been and his face was drawn.
His fingers were on the light switch again when he turned and saw her. She had risen from the depths of the big chesterfield pulled across the hearth, and even in that moment of crisis he wondered that she should be there alone in the dark with no fire on a chill night, the rain teeming down in cold fury outside.
The girl was very small, almost a child, with sleek brown hair which hung loosely round her shapely head. She was fragile, and still looked as though the least breath would blow her away.
That curious, almost ethereal fragility had increased, he noticed.
She, too had not found it so easy, then.
She did not speak, but stood looking at him, her eyes bright and shy, her lips questioning.
Now that the moment had come, words deserted him. He had rehearsed this meeting so often that at the crucial moment, like a stale actor on the stage, he had forgotten his part.
“I thought you’d left here,” he said helplessly. “I was going away.”
Still she did not speak, and suddenly he lost control. His careful explanations and well-thought-out arguments were swept away by his urgent need. He stumbled towards her.
“I’ve come back,” he said. “Oh, Jenny, I’ve come back.”
She drew away from him, not resentfully but gently, almost, it seemed, reluctantly.
He saw her movement and stiffened.
“I know… I’m sorry,” he said dully, and sat down on the arm of the couch, his shoulders drooping.
Now that he was still she moved closer, perching herself on the farther arm of the couch, her feet on the seat, her arms clasping her knees.
They sat for a long time in silence and the room was very cold.
At last he looked up and met her eyes.
“I’m not a bad fellow, Jenny,” he said, “Only ordinary.”
She stirred, moved towards him and drew back again.
“You’ve only just come back to London?” she said, and her voice was quiet and thin and very gentle, as it had always been.
He nodded. “Last night. I had some sleep at a hotel, and then all day I’ve been wandering about trying to prevent myself from clearing off again. I knew I couldn’t expect you to welcome me with open arms, but I thought I might just see you and find out if there was half a chance of patching things up. Is there?”
“You want to come back?” she said, and there was something in her voice that he did not understand.
He looked at her sharply. “You’re not angry, are you?”
“Angry? Oh, no,” she said and looked down at her feet.
Once again he stretched out his hand to her, but she eluded him, shrinking away from his touch as though she were afraid of it, but he had the odd impression that it was not himself of whom she was afraid.
He thought he understood, and plunged into the story that had to be told.
“She left me,” he said jerkily. “A fellow on the boat had more money. I was glad. I knew I’d made a mistake even then. After that I changed my route and went up-country. I’ve been there ever since. I thought I’d get over it at first. I didn’t want to come sneaking back to tell you I’d made a fool of myself. I soon got over that, though. I love you, Jenny. I can’t live without you.”
He glanced at her and saw that she was hanging on his words, a passionate sympathy in her eyes. He went on talking. It made it easier if he talked.
“I was up there alone for two months. I didn’t even see a newspaper. Finally I made up my mind to come back. I felt I’d have more chance with you if I just turned up like this. Jenny, I ought to have married you. For my own sake I ought to have married you. I’d never have left you if we’d been married. It was only that irritating sense of freedom and yet the half-restraint with it. We were young, both of us; I want to marry you
now. Will you let me?”
The girl shook her head. There were tears in her eyes and her whole body drooped as though she were overcome by some dreadful, secret tragedy.
“No,” she said. “You can’t do that. Not now. Never… never. Don’t talk of it. Talk of usual things. How did you get in?”
“With my key. I’ve had it all this time. But I don’t want to talk about usual things. I want you to marry me. I want to begin all over again.”
He had risen and came towards her, his arms outstretched.
“Jenny, don’t look at me like that. What’s the matter? Let me comfort you as I used. Do you remember?”
She started back from him.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered. “Whatever you do, don’t touch me. You mustn’t love me, Geoff. You must go away.”
The couch was between them now and he knelt on it, pleading with her.
“I can’t go. You still love me, Jenny. You never loved anyone but me. Do you remember how I found you down on the marshes? And that sunny day I came down to meet your people. And your father wanted to talk about politics but you took me out to show me the garden. And I kissed you down on the long green path behind the delphinium bank, where no one could see. Don’t look at me like that, Jenny. What’s the matter?”
She was staring at him, a tear trickling down her cheek.
“It’s nothing,” she said and picked up the thread of his story.
“And then you brought me here that Sunday night. Do you remember? And there weren’t any blankets, and I had your great-coat and a rug. It was the beginning of a new life for me.”
He closed his eyes. “Oh don’t, Jenny, please! Don’t rub it in. You didn’t see your people after… after I went?
“No,” she said.
“Did you try to see them?”
“No.”
He turned away from her in an agony of self-reproach.
“Oh poor little Jenny! I didn’t mean to behave like that. It was only that she just swept down on me and altered the whole world for the moment. It couldn’t have lasted. I ought to have known that. I didn’t think what it would be like for you. Oh my dear, you must come back to me. We’ll be married as soon as we can arrange it, and then we’ll go off on that trip we used to plan so often… pick up a car in Calais and go to Paris by road, and then strike south, just you and me.”
The girl shook her head. “No. We can’t go together. You mustn’t want me to. Oh, my darling, you mustn’t want me to.”
She spoke with such curious intensity that the realisation that something was seriously wrong forced itself upon his mind, something new, something for which he had not legislated.
“Why not?” he said.
She stood within a foot of him, her eyes fixed compellingly upon his face.
“Geoff,” she said, “you must go away from here alone. I can’t come with you. You must forget me, let your mind shut me out. It will be so much less hard for you, my dear.”
“No!” he said wildly. “No. I love you. Don’t send me away… please… please don’t send me away.”
“Go away,” she repeated. “Go away quickly. Don’t think of me. Don’t want me. When my name comes into your mind drive it out. Don’t think of me. I can never come.”
“You’ve said that before,” he said slowly. “What is there to stop you?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said, drawing back from him, still speaking in the same subdued, anxious tone. “Don’t try to find out.”
“There’s some reason why you can’t come? Some secret?”
She nodded, and the feeling of apprehension in the cold little room struck into his heart.
“But my dear,” he said, “if we love each other there’s nothing strong enough to hold us apart. Tell me about it.”
She had retreated to the centre of the room and was looking at him wistfully and with infinite pathos in her face.
“I can’t come,” she said brokenly. “Oh my darling, I can’t come. You’ll know soon, but not now… not now, please. Don’t make it happen now.”
“But I must know,” he persisted. “Don’t you see, it means all our life. Oh God, I can’t let you go again!”
His voice broke helplessly on the last word and she swayed a little towards him, her face twisted with pain.
“I love you,” she said. “I have always loved you. For me you were love. Believe that. But oh, my dear, I can’t come with you now. I can’t.”
“Why? Why the mystery?” He was frightened now. “Tell me. I can bear it, whatever it is. Tell me.”
“Not now,” she implored. “Not now. Oh, please, not now!”
The man glanced round the room and a faint enlightenment came into his eyes.
“All this stuff is new, of course,” he said. “I hardly recognised our lacquer room. You’re living with someone?”
“No,” she said faintly. “No. Don’t ask. Don’t try to find out.”
He stared at her. The chill in the room was eating into his bones.
“I don’t understand. My lawyer sent you an allowance, didn’t he? You haven’t been poor, have you? I remember that frock you’re wearing. It’s old-fashioned now. Are you married?”
“No.”
“You’re free, then?”
She nodded wearily. “Free. Oh terribly, terribly free.”
“You can marry me, then?”
“No, never, Geoff.” She backed away from him. “It’s too late. We can never be married now. And remember, oh remember—afterwards, you mustn’t think of me.”
She had retreated across the room now and was standing with her back to the heavy curtains which hung across the window. He followed her.
“I can’t stand any more of this,” he said. “I love you, you love me. I’m coming to kiss you. My dear, we belong to one another. There’s nothing that can separate us.”
She stretched out her hand as though to ward him off, and her quiet voice was soft and breathless.
“Don’t… don’t. There is something between us, something enormous. I can’t come. Oh Geoff, don’t you see? I can’t come.”
He stared at her and a fraction of the truth broke upon him.
“Jenny!” he said hoarsely, “whose flat is this now?”
She was standing back against the curtains, and her whisper, although so soft, seemed to fill the room.
“Strangers.”
“Jenny!” The man was hysterical. “What is the secret?”
A breath parted the curtains and she stepped back into their folds. Her voice was very sorrowful and had utter tragedy in its tone.
“Don’t you understand… my dear… I killed myself.”
The curtains slipped over her and he leapt forward and swept them wide.
Beyond was the high white window with the dark rain lashing against the panes.
From outside the door came the sound of laughing voices as the owner of the flat set a key in the latch.
A Quarter of a Million
Detective Sergeant Richardson’s keen eye took in every detail of the man’s appearance.
‘There he is. Funny looking chap, isn’t he? You wouldn’t think a man with a face like that could get away with half a million.” He spoke softly and without turning his head, and the inconspicuous figure at his side grinned.
“You wouldn’t think he could count to half a million, by the look of him,” Sergeant Murdoch observed.
“Probably can’t,” said Richardson drily, and the two Yard detectives remained standing where they were on the quay, watching the stream of passengers hurrying down the gangway from the Channel steamer.
The man they were looking towards moved slowly away from the boat, almost as though he were loath to set foot on English ground. He was a strange-looking man, approaching sixty, heavily built and small-eyed. He was well dressed but his clothes sagged upon him, indicating suddenly lost weight. There was a stoop about his shoulders also, and a certain furtiveness in his glance.
This was
Joseph Thurtle, the man who three months before had been at the head of a large American cotton combine. The spectacular crash of the company and the subsequent revelation of its affairs had turned Mr. Thurtle from a millionaire to a hunted fugitive.
The sensational story of his escape from the States with at least half a million sterling in negotiable securities had made front page news. Extradition warrants had followed him from country to country. He had fled from France to Italy, from Italy to Greece to North Africa, and now, as he set foot in England, he did so with the knowledge that the police must have prepared a suitable reception for him.
As he stepped off the boat he had looked behind him sharply. It was quite evident to the two men who watched that he expected a hand on his shoulder at any moment.
“Come on. We’ll follow him through Customs.”
Richardson spoke quietly. A flicker of disgust passed across his red face.
“I don’t like this method of Parker’s,” he added. “Why not arrest the man right away and put him out of his misery? This waiting for him at Victoria, so that he can have a snappy arrest with the Press standing round admiring is a bit cheap, to my mind.”
“Detective Inspector Parker is a bit cheap,” said Murdoch. “You and I have been on this job for ten years, and I was thinking, have you ever before heard of or known a fellow with Parker’s reputation at the Yard? He’s an unpopular publicity hound. Come on! We’ll keep an eye on this poor devil until he gets out of the train at Victoria feeling perfectly safe and walks straight into the arms of the unpleasant Parker and a battery of cameras.”
They sauntered into the crowd and, with the ease of long practice, edged their way through the jostling groups of passengers until they walked directly behind the man they shadowed.
There were many friends and relations awaiting passengers on the Folkestone Harbour station, but there was one young man among the throng who served in neither capacity. He was a shortish, round-faced, fair-haired individual with a foolish expression and rather blank, trusting blue eyes.
He observed Joseph Thurtle and sauntered forward casually as the man came hurrying down the platform. When he was within a few feet of Thurtle, however, he caught sight of the officials walking behind the financier. He hurried past the man and climbed into another compartment. To all outward appearances there had been nothing odd in his behaviour, and yet in that brief instant quite an important person had abandoned one plan and embarked upon another.
Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories Page 14