The Beckoning Lady (22 page)

Luke ran his fingers through his shorn curls until he looked like a black lamb.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Why did you send that ‘All Clear' message just now? The original enquiry, if I remember, talked of an enemy. How did it go?—‘Mourning, Danger, A Deadly Foe is Here, Do not Refuse Me, Make Haste'. Wasn't that it?”

“It was.” Mr. Campion had the grace to look embarrassed. “That's the Mole's point of view. To understand any letter, you have first to consider your correspondent. Alas, I know Whippet and his Mole. Once I decided the message came from him, I knew it meant ‘There is a case of mourning at hand which interests the Mole. There is danger—to the Mole. A deadly enemy—of the Mole—is at hand. Do not refuse—the Mole. Make haste to save—the Mole.' I've had a bucket or two, as you yourself, Charles, might say, of the Mole before. Old Whippet always was a lazy beggar. He made me do all his Mole tending most ingeniously, once, while he pinched the young woman on whom my eye had lighted at the time. I was at school with him, and so was Tonker. That's why he knows he must tread very warily or look a clot.”

“So you told him it's all clear?” enquired Luke, suspecting a serious flaw in this interesting form of cricket by which he had recently become so fascinated. “How do you square that one?”

“Not at all.” Mr. Campion was hurt. “I've told him it wasn't suicide. That's the only query which he could possibly be raising. If you are murdered your insurance company can't back out. If you commit suicide, it can.”

“I see.” Luke sat back. “There's a lot in it,” he said at last.

At length the silence became uncomfortable. The friends knew each other well, and the shadow of the Superintendent's revelation of the morning had hung over them ever since he had made it. Finally Luke took the plunge.

“You're right,” he began. “The old gentleman is your business. But the other bird is mine.” His eyes met Campion's own. “That's the sort of crime I understand. I'm used to it. I deal with it every day. There are strong motives there, you know.”

“I suppose so.” Mr. Campion sounded unhappy.

“Oh yes.” Luke stubbed out his cigarette. “That's marriage. We hear a lot about marriage in the Barrow Road. No two are quite alike. People fix up the most extraordinary arrangements between themselves.” He smiled wryly. “You know what we say about marriage? We say it's like the kitchen clock. If it goes better lying on its side or even standing on its head, leave it alone. As long as it ticks and tells the time, keep your hands out of the works. In this case it's pretty clear to me that this silly little Big-'ead put his paws in the machinery and where is he now?”

Mr. Campion swallowed. “What do you think has happened?” he ventured.

“I don't know yet. I want to see the man.”

“Tonker? You'll like him.”

“I expect to. That's just my luck. I'm all on his side. If I found any stranger in my place talking to me about getting my missis to divorce me to save money I might hit him.”

“Tonker's not like that. He's an artist.”

“Artist!” Luke spoke with withering contempt. “People talk about artists as if they went about in flying saucers. The only artists I've ever met were just like me only more so. Well, guv'nor, I hope for all our sakes that there's some other explanation—but who else is there? I don't think an acorn fell on Little Doom, do you?”

“What about Jake Bernadine?” Mr. Campion spoke reluctantly.

“Him?” The Chief Inspector smiled. “We didn't get very near him. He was grooming his moke, for one thing. He's a chap who reminds you of opening one of those cellar lids outside a backstreet London shop. You look down
into a great dark empty place. There's something alive down there, but it might be just an old woman or pussy. No, I think he's in the clear, and I'll tell you why. That chap is a thrower and not a hitter. They're utterly different.”

“He hit a man once,” said Mr. Campion, still reluctantly, “and knocked him out.”

“Did he? I bet you'll find he picked him up and threw him down so that he hit his own head, or fainted. Besides, I believed that girl with the cakes when she said he was listening to the wireless. I believe her altogether. Her story's the only hope we've got.”

Mr. Campion eyed him curiously. “Doom was running away?”

“No! He was running
to
something. That's what the old Super noticed, and he's no one's fool, tricky old monkey. The same thing showed up at the reconstruction. The murderer was
over
the barrier, on the far side of it. Little Doom was advancing on him. Why? The whole crime is just a little bit back to front.” He sighed wearily. “I've been thinking about that extraordinary little dog-man this morning. He's absolutely new on me. He
was
incapably drunk last night, by the way. I checked it with the bartender just now when I took your flowers. Oh, and he's put us down on the slate for three pints, if you please. One each. His mind works. He doesn't do it all through his nose. Who
is
he? Is he a type? Do you get a lot of them?”

“He re-occurs.” Mr. Campion restrained an impulse to glance sharply behind him. “You meet him from time to time. Long ago it was thought expedient to give chaps like that a nice sort of nickname, just to be on the safe side.”

“How do you mean?” Luke was intrigued. Anything which was right out of his experience held an unholy fascination for him. “Pal, or something?”

“Or even more crudely, Good-Fellow,” said Mr. Campion and broke off abruptly.

The lady of the inn had returned in a fluster.

“There's London papers keep ringing up, Mr. Campion,” she said. “Gentlemen want to come and stay here. Dad says would you advise him?”

Mr. Campion grimaced at Luke. “It's caught the evening editions then,” he murmured. “Well Dolly, they're coming down. Nothing on God's earth will stop them. I should telephone your brewer, stock right up with spirits, and air the beds. You'll find them very nice generous gentlemen, but they'll keep late hours. Tell them anything you know, but nothing you don't. Your father need not worry. They're all right. They'll pay their bills.”

Luke's dark face was mischievous. “Good-Fellows all,” he said. “How much of the Admiral's brandy is left in the bottle?”

“Barely three little glasses, sir.”

“Bring 'em.” Luke spoke recklessly. “It's the one safe hiding-place.”

Miss Dolly said she'd rather have a small port, so they split the third glass and went out into the village street feeling fortified if not sanguine. As they paused for a moment on the edge of the heath, blinking in the dazzling light, the Postmistress put her head out of the door of the shop and beckoned. She had a telegram for Campion handed in at a West Central London office at ten minutes past two. He read it and passed it to Luke.

“Obtrusive item is good.” The Chief Inspector was grimly amused. “Is he right? Where is the Pontisbright Park Estate?”

Mr. Campion explained in detail. “It may be that the stile is on their property,” he added at last. “Leo said it
wasn't on Minnie's, and I hear they've been buying up land round here lately. Trust Tonker to think of that conjuror's misdirection. He's trying to save his party from the Press.”

“Which is not like a bloke who's done a killing unless he's lakes.” Luke used the ancient slang which decrees that Lakes of Killarney shall rhyme with barmy. “Well, good luck to him. He may get away with it. South is bent on keeping Angel dark, and I doubt if they'd touch him at this juncture anyway. That tale of his is sheer dynamite. What about this Pontisbright Park Estate? If the owner isn't in residence, who is there?”

“A shocker called Smith, who is preparing it for sale, I think. He was there yesterday. And his car must be still in the village. I know that for a fact.”

“We'll look him up.” Luke sounded as if he were grasping at straws. “Come on, we're justified . . . just. Let's have a bash.”

“CHRISTMAS!” SAID LUKE
as he brought his small car to a standstill in a newly laid out drive as big as a bus park. “Is this a house?”

Mr. Campion made no attempt to move but sat looking wide-eyed at the “improvements” which Miss Pinkerton had warned him had overtaken Potter's Hall, Fanny Genappe's little farm where the larks once had nested. It was a melancholy prospect. After his first wave of dismay, it became obvious to him what had occurred. A rambling Tudor farmhouse, not unlike The Beckoning Lady, had been embellished at some time during the past century with a pretentious Georgian front one room deep, while a fine range of hunting stables, complete with clock tower, had been added at the northern end. Possibly the result had not been unpleasing, but that there was now no way of telling. Now the whole of the older buildings, gardens, trees and duck-ponds, had been smoothed away so that all that remained was something which looked like an architect's elevation, or the façade in a child's box of bricks. The house had no depth and remarkably little character. Everywhere was very tidy, very newly painted, very bare.

The same disconcerting clearance had been made to the surrounding land. Not a hedge, not a tree, not a ditch remained, only a bare open plain sloping gently to the river some quarter-mile distant where a fringe of greenery still flourished, and away in the southern valley a large unwieldy knot of trees, roofs, and pocket-handkerchief fields which was the ten-acre Beckoning Lady estate taking a deep bite out of the area.

Luke was so silent that Mr. Campion turned sharply to look at him and discovered him staring ahead with
strained concentration, his narrow eyes soot-dark and even tragic. It took Campion some seconds to discover that he was looking at the stable clock.

“Five past three,” Campion suggested helpfully.

The D.D.C.I. shook himself free from some secret enchantment. He had coloured slightly.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I've sent someone down to see my mum at her little house in Linden Lea. They should be together now.” There was a pause and he added abruptly, “It isn't a bit like this.”

Mr. Campion regarded his friend with respectful surprise. He never knew which he admired most about Luke, his common sense or his courage. His present preoccupation appeared to have demanded a considerable quantity of both. He opened the door of the car and returned to the Pontisbright Park Estate.

“That's a matter for profound congratulation,” he murmured. “This does not appeal to me as a place for anybody's mum. It's like one of those terrible Irish fairies who have no backs. When you look over your shoulder at them you see they're hollow as jelly-moulds.”

Luke collected himself with a start. The fairies, haunts and spells of Pontisbright were getting under his skin.

“Get away,” he said. “What a horrible idea.”

“Isn't it?” Mr. Campion seemed happy. “Like Tonker's skin-deep masks, yet not unsuitable on Midsummer's Eve. Let us ring the bell of this blank-eyed shell and see what comes out. The vertical half of an empty bottle, perhaps.”

Ten minutes later it was evident to them both that nothing at all was going to come out of the narrow house. The place was deserted. Mr. Campion tried the door. It was unlocked and he eyed Luke.

“Suppose you tried to find a gardener,” he suggested. “There must be somebody about, if it's only to sweep the drive.”

Luke did not argue. As a private person Mr. Campion had certain advantages. He strolled off at once and the man in the horn-rimmed spectacles melted quietly into the house.

It was in use but deserted, and all about there were evidences of Miss Pinkerton's bright impersonal efficiency. Every flower vase had four neat blooms in it, every cushion was set in a diamond shape, every newspaper was folded with its title showing.

The kitchen alone betrayed traces of a more human personality, but this too was deserted. The stove was banked up and closed, and the back door was locked.

On the table the thin man discovered the key to a simple situation. A well-spaced typewritten note was propped against the brown sugar crock, and as he read it the picture became clear.

With the S.S.S. man, the chauffeur, and Miss Pinkerton away, and the cook shopping further afield than the village, since no one in their senses would even hope to buy lobster in Pontisbright, it seemed to Mr. Campion that he had little to worry about. So he continued his wandering. The house was planned in the only possible way, which is to say like a corridor railway coach, with a staircase at each end of the corridor. Upstairs he found little to interest him. The bedroom used by the S.S.S. man yielded a fine assortment of pomades, eye-drops and blood-pills, but no dormital.

Miss Pinkerton appeared to take no medicine at all, and the Beetons, man and wife, to take everything Mr. Campion had ever heard of except opiates. In a bathroom he found some aspirin, but nothing more.

He went down again and inspected the liquor cupboard in the dining-room, where there were most things except,
rather surprisingly, gin. And finally he discovered the small room at the opposite end of the corridor to the kitchen which was Miss Pinkerton's office. He knew this because, somewhat unnecessarily one would have thought, it had her name on the door on a small typed card.