Dancers in Mourning (3 page)

He laughed and although the familiar gaiety was there the man watching him saw suddenly that it was a trick of line and feature rather than an expression of genuine feeling. It was typical of him, Campion reflected. His very skin and bone was make-up. The man himself was within, intelligent still but different.

‘It began with the “House Full” boards,' Sutane said slowly. ‘Someone stuck “Last Week” slips across them. That was irritating but it didn't mean anything. Then, as far as I remember, there was an outburst of the bird in the gallery one night. It was a claque and the rest of the house was annoyed. That didn't matter in itself but little paragraphs about it got into the press. I put “Sock” Petrie on to it at once and he traced one or two of them to phone calls put through the same night.'

He paused.

‘It's nothing much to talk about, I know, but it's been so continuous. We've had to put fresh glass over my photographs outside almost every other day. Someone smashes it regularly. Never a trace of him. There have been dozens of other trivial little things too; nothing in themselves, you know, but alarming when they mount up.'

His dark eyes grew sombre.

‘It's now that it's spread out to our place at home that it's getting me down. Finding strangers in the garden with silly excuses and that sort of thing.'

He broke off lamely and turned to the elder man.

‘That woman Chloe Pye is going down there tonight,' he said. ‘She says my wife asked her and she's going. I told her I'd rather she didn't, but she laughed at me. Can't chuck her out, can I?'

Uncle William made a depreciatory sound and Mr Campion retained his habitual expression of polite interest. Sutane paused and reddened suddenly under his grease-paint.

‘I'm damned if it's all coincidence!' he burst out. ‘You come down tomorrow, Mr Campion, and see how it strikes you. It's getting on all our nerves, these little petty digs at me. There was a rumour all over the place last week that I'd torn a muscle in my arm. Nine different people rang me up in one morning to sympathise.'

His voice had an edge to it, and his long fingers drummed on the glass top of the dressing-table.

‘It doesn't matter so far,' he said, ‘but where's it going to end? A reputation like mine, which depends on goodwill, can get pretty seriously damaged by a campaign like this. Yes?'

The final word was addressed to the doorway, where an apologetic Henry stood hesitating.

‘It's Mr Blest,' he ventured ‘I thought …'

‘Blest! Come in.' Sutane seemed relieved. ‘You know Mr Faraday. Mr Campion …'

Ex-Inspector Blest grinned and nodded to the tall figure in the corner.

‘Evenin',' he said. ‘Didn't expect to see you here, Mr Campion. It's as serious as that, is it? Well, Mr Sutane, it's all quiet tonight. Nothing to report at all. There's not a word uttered out of place in the whole theatre. Ever since you engaged me to keep an eye on things I've been keeping my ears open and you can take it from me, sir, there's nothing but friendliness towards you everywhere.'

‘Is that so?' With a movement so sudden and angry that the detective stepped back involuntarily, Sutane took up a face towel from the table and wiped his cheek. ‘What about that?'

The four men in the room looked at him curiously. From a point just below the left eye and following the line of the nose to the upper lip was a deep ragged scratch. Sutane ran his finger down it.

‘D'you know what that is, Blest? That's the oldest, dirtiest little theatre trick in the bag. A pin in the grease-paint stick. God knows how long it's been there. One day I was certain to work down to it. It happened to be tonight.'

Blest was astonished in spite of himself. His round heavy face was crimson and he looked at Henry suspiciously.

‘D'you know anything about this?' he demanded. ‘Who could have had access to your master's paint?'

‘Oh, don't be a fool.' Sutane's tone was weary. ‘The show has run for three hundred performances. My dressing-room isn't always locked. Hundreds of people have been in and out of here in the last eight months. It's a long pin, you see, and it has been stuck up through the bottom of the stick. The head was buried in the silver-paper holder.'

He began to pile cream on his face to get the rest of the paint off.

‘Then there's the bouquet,' he went on lazily, half enjoying the sensation he was creating. ‘There it is. A messenger boy handed it in at the stage door just before the show began.'

‘Flowers?' The ex-inspector was inclined to be amused. ‘I can't say I see anything funny about that, sir.'

He took up the little white bunch gingerly and eyed it.

‘Not very grand, perhaps. Star of Bethlehem, aren't they? Country flowers. You've got a lot of humble admirers, you know.'

Sutane did not speak and, finding himself ignored, the ex-policeman raised the flowers to his nose and sniffed them idly. His sudden change of expression was ludicrous, and he dropped the bouquet with an exclamation.

‘Garlic!' he ejaculated, his small eyes round with astonishment. ‘Garlic! Hey, what d'you know about that? A messenger brought it, did he? Well, I think I can check up there. Excuse me.'

He retrieved the flowers and plunged out of the room with them. Sutane caught Campion's eye in the mirror and turned round to face him.

‘It's all trivial,' he said apologetically. ‘Little tuppenny-ha'penny squirts of malice. They're negligible on their own, but after a month or so they get one down.'

He broke off and smiled. When he spoke again it was to reveal the essential charm of the man, a charm which was to puzzle and finally defeat an Albert Campion who was then barely in existence.

‘It's worse for me,' he said. ‘I've been such a blasted popular sort of fellow for so long.' His grin grew lop-sided and his eyes were sad and childlike and intelligent.

A
FTERWARDS
, when the tide of circumstance had reached its flood and there was no telling what were the secrets beneath its turbulent waters, Mr Campion tried to remember every moment of that long and catastrophic day. Details which had seemed unimportant at the time flitted about in his mind with exasperating vagueness and he strove to catch at them in vain.

Yet the whole story was there, so clear to read if only he had been looking for it.

On the momentous Sunday Mr Campion went to White Walls in the morning. On that day Chloe Pye plumbed the final depth of inconsideration, entirely outclassing all her previous efforts. This, in itself, was a remarkable feat since her total disregard for those who entertained her was a byword among the host of near-friends who composed her circle.

Uncle William Faraday sat beside Mr Campion in the Lagonda and pointed out the way with most of the pride of ownership. It was July and the roads were hot and scented, cow-parsley making a bridal avenue of every lane. Uncle William sniffed appreciatively.

‘Twenty miles from London. Nothing in a car. But feel you're in the heart of the country. He runs a flat, of course, but gets down here most evenings. Don't blame Sutane. Sensible feller, at heart.'

He glanced at his companion to make sure he was attending.

‘Dear old place,' he went on, receiving a nod of encouragement. ‘You'll like it. Used to belong to his wife's uncle. Girl wanted to keep it when it came to her and Sutane suddenly thought, “Why not?” That music-writer, Squire Mercer, who did the stuff for my show, has a little house on the estate. Had it for years. Matter of fact, it was at his place that Sutane met Linda, his wife. She was stayin' with her uncle up at White Walls and Jimmy came down to see Mercer. They fell in love and there you are. Funny how things work out.'

He was silent for some little time, his old eyes speculative and his lips moving a little as though he rehearsed still further details of Sutane's private life. Mr Campion remained thoughtful.

‘This persecution business has got on his nerves, has it? Or is he always as excitable as he was last night?'

‘Always a bit mad.' The old man pulled the large tweed cap he affected for motoring more firmly over his ears. ‘Noticed that as soon as I saw him. Don't think he's very much worse than usual. Of course you can understand it when you see the life the feller leads. Most unnatural … overworked, thinks too much, no peace at all, always in the thick of things, always in a hurry …'

He hesitated as though debating on a confidence not quite in good taste.

‘It's a rum
ménage
for a decent house,' he remarked at last. ‘Don't know what the old servants make of it. My own first experience of Bohemia, don't you know. Not at all what I thought.'

He sounded a little regretful and Campion glanced at him.

‘Disappointing?' he inquired.

‘No, my boy; no, not exactly.' Uncle William was ashamed of himself. ‘Freedom, you know, great freedom, but only in the things that don't matter, if you see what I mean. Very rational, really. Like you to meet 'em all. Turn down here. This is the beginnin' of the estate. It's a modern house on an old site. This is the park.'

Mr Campion turned the nose of the car down a flint lane leading off the secondary road. High banks, topped by a chase of limes and laurels so dear to the privacy-loving hearts of an earlier generation, rose on either side. His passenger regarded these screens with satisfaction.

‘I like all this,' he said. ‘Since it's a right-of-way, very sensible. Notice this?'

He waved a plump hand towards a high rustic bridge overgrown with ramblers which spanned the road ahead of them.

‘Pretty, isn't it? Useful too. Saves havin' steps down to the road. The house, the lawns and the lake are over here to the right and there's an acre or two of park on the other side. Must cost him a pretty penny to keep up.'

They passed under the bridge and came on to the drive proper, wide and circular, leading up to the house. Campion, who had entertained misgivings at the term ‘modern,' was reassured.

Standing on high ground, its wide windows open to catch a maximum of sun, was one of those rare triumphs of the sounder architects of the earlier part of the century. There was nothing of the villa in its white walls and re-stiled roof. It possessed a fine generosity of line and proportion and succeeded in looking somehow like a great white yacht in full sail.

‘French-looking,' commented Uncle William complacently. ‘Take the car through into the yard. Like you to see the stables.'

They passed under the archway of the stable buildings on the left of the house and came into a brick yard where several cars were already parked. Apart from Sutane's own black Bentley there were two small sports cars and one remarkable contraption of considerable age on which a young man in overalls and a cloth cap was at work. He grinned at Uncle William.

‘It's back again, sir,' he said. ‘Universal joint gone this time.' He nodded to Campion with impartial friendliness, indicated a parking spot, and returned to his work.

‘See what I mean?' said Mr Faraday in one of his disastrous asides. ‘No formality in the whole place. That's Petrie's car he's at work on. Feller they call “Sock.” Can't quite understand him. Like your opinion.'

As they emerged from the archway Mr Campion became aware of a certain hesitation in his companion's manner and, looking up, he saw the cause coming down the drive towards them. It was Chloe Pye.

She was dressed in a small white swim-suit, high-heeled shoes and a child's sunbonnet, and managed to look every one of her forty-odd years. Off the stage she, too, presented some of that self-exaggeration which had been so noticeable in Sutane. Her body was hard and muscular and one saw that her face was old rather because of the stuff it was made of than because of any defect of line or contour. She was swinging a long bright scarf and carried a book and a deck-chair.

At the sight of the visitors she threw the scarf round her shoulders and stood hesitating, arch and helpless.

‘How providential!' she called to Uncle William as soon as he was within earshot. ‘Come and help me, darling.'

Mr Faraday bustled forward, self-conscious and incompetent. He raised his cap to her carefully before taking the chair.

‘And who's this?' Chloe Pye managed to pat Uncle William's arm, hand him the chair and indicate that she was waiting for his companion to be introduced all in one movement.

Campion came up and was conscious of pale green eyes a trifle too prominent, which looked up into his face and found him disappointing.

‘They're all in the house,' she said. ‘Shop, shop, nothing but shop the whole time. Shall I have the chair under the trees, Mr Faraday? Or do you think it would be better by the flower bed? – that one over there with the silly little red thingummies in it.'

It took some little time to get her settled and themselves out of reach of her tenacious conversational openings, but they broke away eventually and once again headed for the front door.

‘You won't believe a word they tell you, will you?' she shouted as they reached the path. ‘They're all quite mad, my dears. They're just seeing insults on all sides … tell somebody to bring me some ice water.'

The front door stood open and from it came the sound of a piano. The unsuspecting Mr Campion had just set foot on the lowest step when there was a roar above him and a gigantic Dane, who had been sleeping on the mat just inside the hall, leapt down, his neck bristling and his eyes uncompromisingly red.

‘Hoover!' protested Mr Faraday. ‘Down, sir! Down! Somebody call the dog!'

The thunderous barking shook the house and a woman in a white linen coat appeared in the doorway.

‘Lie down, you little beast,' she said, hurrying down the steps and cuffing the animal with a broad red hand. ‘Oh, it's you, Mr Faraday? He ought to know you. Get back, Hoover. Go in and watch your mistress.'