Look to the Lady (16 page)

He paused at the boy's surprise, and Campion grinned.

‘The Professor's a true son of his country – he knows more about ours than we do,' he remarked.

Val sat back in his chair. ‘Look here,' he said, ‘if this is the “mock chalice”, as you call it, why can't we let these infernal thieves, whoever they are, have it, and say no more about it?'

Mr Campion shook his head. ‘That's no good,' he said. ‘In the first place they'd spot it from the thing itself, just as we have; and in the second place, unless this forfeiting business of lands and whatnot was at any rate discussed, they'd know they hadn't got the real thing and they wouldn't be happy until they had. Infernally tenacious beggars, “Ethel” and “George”. No, our original scheme is the only one. We've got to find the big fish and hook him.'

‘You see, Mr Gyrth,' the Professor put in slowly, ‘everything that I have told you this morning would be perfectly obvious to an intelligent thief. I imagine the people you have to deal with are men of taste and discrimination. Once they had handled this Chalice themselves they'd be bound to come to the same conclusion as I have. Unfortunately it has been described by several ancient writers. Modern delinquents have much more opportunity of finding out historical facts than their medieval counterparts.'

‘My dear old bird,' said Mr Campion, ‘don't look so funereal. They don't know this yet, rest assured of that. There are probably only five people in the world at present aware of the existence of the second Chalice, and in order to preserve the secret of the real one we must hang on to the “mock chalice” like a pair of bull pups.'

‘Yes, I see that.' Val spoke slowly. ‘But where is the real Chalice – buried somewhere?'

The Professor cleared his throat. ‘As an outsider,' he began, ‘I hardly like to put forward the suggestion, but it seems perfectly obvious to me – allowing for the medieval mind – that that point will be made quite clear to you on your twenty-fifth birthday.'

Val started violently. ‘
The Room!
' he said. ‘Of course.'

For a moment he was lost in wonderment. Then his expression changed and there was something that was almost fear in his eyes.

‘But that's not all,' he said huskily. It was evident that the subject so long taboo had rankled in his mind, for he spoke with eagerness, almost with relief, at being able at last to speak his pent-up suspicions.

‘The room in the east wing,' he said solemnly, ‘contains something terrible. Do you know, Campion, I may be crazy, but I can't help feeling that it's no ordinary museum exhibit. All my life my father has been over-shadowed by something. I mean,' he went on, struggling vainly to express himself, ‘he has something on his mind – something that's almost too big for it. And my grandfather was the same. This is not a subject that's ever spoken of, and I've never mentioned it before to a soul, but there
is
something there, and it's something awe-inspiring.'

There was a short silence after he had spoken, and the Professor rose to his feet. ‘I don't think there's any doubt,' he said quietly, ‘that the real Chalice, which is made of English red gold, and is probably little bigger than a man's cupped hand, has a very terrible and effective guardian.'

—

‘A
LL
these things are ordained, as the old lady said at the Church Congress,' observed Mr Campion. ‘Everything comes to an end, and we're certainly getting a bit forrader. We shall have another expert opinion in a moment or so. My friend Inspector Stanislaus Oates is a most delightful cove. He'll turn up all bright and unofficial and tell us the betting odds.'

He sank down in an arm-chair opposite Val and lit a cigarette. His friend stirred uneasily.

‘We
are
having a day with the experts, aren't we?' he said. ‘I say, I like the Professor. Why did you keep him up your sleeve so long?'

Mr Campion spread out his hands. ‘Just low cunning,' he said. ‘A foolish desire to impress. Also, you must remember, I didn't know you very well. You might not have been the sort of young person for him to associate with. Besides that, Mrs Cairey – a most charming old dear, by the way – and your aunt were playing the old feminine game of spit-scratch-and-run among the tea-cups. Sans “purr” seems to have been your aunt's motto.'

Val frowned. ‘Aunt Di,' he said, ‘was what Uncle Lionel's brother Adolphe used to call a freak of Nature. I remember him saying to me: “Val, my boy, you never get a woman who is a complete fool. Many men achieve that distinction, but never a woman. The exception which proves that rule is your Aunt Diana.” He didn't like her. I wonder what she said to Mrs Cairey. Something offensive, I'll bet.'

‘Something about the “Pilgrim Fathers being Non-conformists, anyhow,” I should think,' said Mr Campion judicially, as he adjusted his glasses. ‘Hullo,' he added, pricking up his ears, ‘footsteps on the stairs. “And that, if I mistake not, Watson, is our client.” He's early. As a rule they don't let him out till half-past six.'

He did not trouble to rise, but shouted cheerfully: ‘Enter the Byng Boy! Lift the latch and come in.'

A long silence followed this invitation. Mr Campion shouted again. ‘Come right in. All friends here. Leave your handcuffs on the hook provided by the management.'

There was a footstep in the passage outside, and the next moment the door of the room in which they sat was pushed cautiously open, and a small white face topped by a battered trilby hat peered through the opening. Mr Campion sprang to his feet.

‘Ernie Walker!' he said. ‘Shoo! Shoo! Scat! We've got a policeman coming up here.'

The pale unlovely face split into a leer. ‘That's all right,' he said. ‘I'm out on tick. All me papers signed up proper. I got something to tell yer. Something to make yer sit up.'

Mr Campion sat down again. ‘Come in,' he said. ‘Shut the door carefully behind you. Stand up straight, and wipe the egg off your upper lip.'

The leer broadened. ‘I can grow a moustache if I like, can't I?' said Mr Walker without malice. He edged into the room, revealing a lank, drooping figure clad in dingy tweeds grown stiff with motor-grease. He came towards Campion with a slow self-conscious swagger.

‘I can do you a bit o' good, I can,' he said. ‘But it'll cost yer a fiver.'

‘Just what they say in Harley Street, only not so frankly,' said Mr Campion cheerfully. ‘What are you offering me? Pills? Or do you want to put me up for your club?'

Ernie Walker jerked his thumb towards Val. ‘What about 'im?' he demanded.

‘That's all right. He's the Lord Harry,' said Campion. ‘No one of importance. Carry on. What's the tale?'

‘I said a fiver,' said Ernie, removing his hat, out of deference, Val felt, to the title his friend had so suddenly bestowed upon him.

‘You'll never get a job on the knocker like that,' said Mr Campion reprovingly. ‘Get on with your fanny.'

Ernie winked at Val. ‘Knows all the words, don't 'e?' he said ‘If 'e was as bright as 'e thinks 'e is 'e'd 'ave spotted me this morning.'

Mr Campion looked up. ‘Good Lord! You drove the Benz,' he said. ‘You'll get your papers “all torn up proper” if you don't look out.'

‘Steady on – steady on. I wasn't doin' nothin'. Drivin' a party for an outin' – that's wot I was up to.' Ernie's expression was one of outraged innocence. ‘And if you don't want to know anything, you needn't. I'm treatin' yer like a friend and yer start gettin' nasty.' He put on his hat.

‘No need to replace the divot,' said Mr Campion mildly. ‘You were hired for the job, I suppose?'

‘That's right,' said Ernie. ‘And I thought you might pay a fiver to find out who hired me.'

Mr Campion sighed. ‘If you've come all this way to tell me that Matthew Sanderson doesn't like me,' he said, ‘you're a bigger fool than I am, Gunga Din.'

‘If it comes to callin' names,' said Mr Walker with heat, as he struggled to repress his disappointment, ‘I know me piece as well as anybody.'

Campion raised a hand warningly. ‘Hush,' he said, indicating Val. ‘Remember the Aristocracy. Is that all you have to offer?'

‘No, it ain't. Certainly Matt Sanderson engaged me, but he's working for another feller. While I was tuning up the car I kept me ears open and I 'eard 'im talkin' about the big feller. You never know when a spot of information may be useful, I says to meself.'

Mr Campion's eyes flickered behind his big spectacles. ‘Now you're becoming mildly interesting,' he said.

‘It's five quid,' said Ernie. ‘Five quid for the name o' the bloke Sanderson was workin' for.'

Mr Campion felt for his note-case. ‘It's this cheap fiction you read,' he grumbled. ‘This thinking in terms of fivers. Your dad would come across for half a crown.' He held up five notes like a poker hand.

‘Now,' he said, ‘out with it.'

Ernie became affable. ‘You're a gent,' he said, ‘that's what you are. One of the nobs. Well, I 'eard Sanderson say to a pal of 'is – a stranger to the game – “I shall 'ave to answer to The Daisy for this.” That was when we was drinkin' up the beer you left in the bag. Mind yer – I didn't know it was you until I saw yer in the car. You 'ad the laugh of 'em all right. They was wild.'

‘The Daisy,' said Mr Campion. ‘Are you sure?'

‘That was the name. I remember it becos Alf Ridgway, the chap they used to call The Daisy, was strung up two years ago. At Manchester, that was.'

‘Oh,' said Mr Campion, and passed over the notes, ‘How's the car business?'

‘As good as ever it was.' Mr Walker spoke with enthusiasm. ‘I sold a lovely repaint in Norwood last week. My brother pinched it up at Newcastle. Brought it down to the garage and we faked it up lovely – registration book and everything. I was the mug, though. The dirty little tick I sold it to – a respectable 'ouseholder, too – passed a couple o' dud notes off on me. Dishonest, that's what people are half the time.'

‘Hush,' said Mr Campion, ‘here comes Stanislaus.'

Ernie pocketed the notes hastily and turned expectantly towards the doorway. A moment later Inspector Stanislaus Oates appeared. He was a tall, greyish man, inclined to run to fat at the stomach, but nowhere else.

‘Hullo,' he said, ‘do you always leave the front door open?' Then, catching sight of Ernie, he added with apparent irrelevancy: ‘O – my – aunt!'

‘I'm just off, sir.' Indeed, Ernie was already moving towards the door. ‘I come up 'ere visitin'. Same as you, I 'ope,' he added, cocking an eye slyly at his host.

Campion chuckled. ‘Shut the door behind you,' he said pointedly. ‘And remember always to look at the watermark.'

‘What's that?' said Inspector Oates suspiciously. But already the door had closed behind the fleeting figure of the car thief, and they were alone.

Campion introduced Val, and poured the detective a whisky-and-soda. The man from Scotland Yard lounged back in his chair.

‘What are you doing with that little rat?' he demanded, waving his hand in the direction of the door through which Mr Ernest Walker had so lately disappeared. He turned to Val apologetically: ‘Whenever I come up to see this man,' he said, ‘I find someone on our books having a drink in the kitchen or sunning himself on the mat. Even this man is an unreformed character.'

‘Steady,' said Mr Campion. ‘The name of Lugg is sacred. I'm awfully glad you've turned up, old bird,' he went on. ‘You're just the man I want. Do you by any chance know of a wealthy, influential man-about-the-underworld called “The Daisy”?'

‘Hanged in Manchester the twenty-seventh of November, 1928,' said the man from Scotland Yard promptly. ‘Filthy case. Body cut in pieces, and whatnot. I remember that execution. It was raining.'

‘Wrong,' said Mr Campion. ‘Guess again. I mean a much more superior person. Although,' he added despondently, ‘it's a hundred to one on his being an amateur.'

‘There are fifty-seven varieties of Daisy that I know of,' said Mr Oates, ‘if you use it as a nickname. But they're small fry – very small fry, all of 'em. What exactly are you up to now? Or is it a State Secret again?'

He laughed, and Val began to like this quiet, homely man with the twinkling grey eyes.

‘Well, I'm taking the short road, as a matter of fact,' said Mr Campion, and added, as his visitor looked puzzled, ‘as opposed to the long one, if you get my meaning.'

The Inspector was very silent for some moments. Then he sighed and set down his glass. ‘You have my sympathy,' he said. ‘If you go playing with fire, my lad, you'll get burnt one of these days. What help do you expect from me?'

‘Don't you worry,' said Mr Campion, ignoring the last question. ‘I shall live to be present at my godson's twenty-first. Nineteen years hence, isn't it? How is His Nibs?'

For the first time the Inspector's face became animated. ‘Splendid,' he said. ‘Takes that Mickey Mouse you sent him to bed with him every night. I say, you understand I'm here utterly unofficially,' he went on hurriedly. ‘Although if you haven't already lost whatever you're looking after why not put it in our hands absolutely, and leave it at that?' He paused. ‘The trouble with you,' he added judicially, ‘is that you're so infernally keen on your job. You'll get yourself into trouble.'

Mr Campion rose to his feet. ‘Look here, Stanislaus,' he said, ‘you know as well as I do that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the police are the only people in the world to protect a man and his property. But the hundredth time, when publicity is fatal, and the only way out is a drastic spot of eradication, then the private individual has to get busy on his own account. What I want to talk to you about, however, is this. You see that suitcase over there?' He pointed to the new fibre suitcase resting upon a side table. ‘That,' he said, ‘has got to be protected for the next few days. What it contains is of comparatively small intrinsic value, but the agents of our friends of the long road are after it. And once they get hold of it a very great State treasure will be in jeopardy. Do you follow me?'