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Authors: Margery Allingham

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BOOK: Traitor's Purse
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He struggled on and by the time he heard the Superintendent’s heavy breathing just ahead of him he had made up his mind. There was only one course open to him which was not criminally negligent. He must get into touch with Oates at once. He ought to have done that immediately on receipt of the letter, of course. He wondered why he had ignored this obvious solution and suddenly remembered Anscombe and his own invidious position in that matter, which had focused his entire attention on the personal aspect. Hutch had only just explained that, of course. Good God, he was mad! Here he was, stumbling about in the dark seeing monsters where there were bushes and innocent shadows where there might be death-traps, and all the time the precious hours were racing past. He was a lunatic, very possibly a dangerous lunatic. Mercifully he was gradually getting the intelligence to recognize the fact.

The Superintendent was eager for news but even more eager to get out of his highly compromising position. He led the way back with alacrity and they passed across the Council Chamber like a couple of homing foxes.

‘Lorries?’ he said in astonishment when Campion had replied to his question. ‘How many?’

‘Several.’ Campion could not explain his own urge towards caution.

Hutch shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about them,’ he said. ‘It’s the Government work, I expect. They’re doing a lot of experiments with synthetic juice up at the Institute – at least that’s the gossip. The Masters own the Institute, and, come to think of it, the Trough wouldn’t be a bad place to hide a lorry or two. You’re suddenly in a great hurry, sir. You weren’t seen, were you?’

‘No,’ said Campion truthfully, ‘but I’ve got to get a move-on now.’

The Superintendent opened his mouth to make an enquiry but the experience of long service saved him the indiscretion. Moreover, they were approaching the store-room behind the shop again.

They got out without incident but Hutch was not pleased
to
find it almost dawn. Fortunately it was misty and the two men plunged into the chilling vapour as thankfully as if it had been a smoke-screen especially provided for their benefit.

As they passed down the broad highway of the Nag’s Pykle the squat houses blinked at them through the haze and the town of Bridge looked a little less like a fairy-tale than it had done by moonlight. It was old and very picturesque, but the unreality, the frankly fantastic atmosphere of the night before, had vanished with the moon.

Campion was relieved to see it and to credit his returning intelligence with the change. He felt definitely ill. His head was throbbing and his body ached. However, he knew what he had to do. Amanda was his card. Amanda must take him to Oates. It was odd that the very recollection of Amanda should wrap such comfort round him. He must get out of that, he supposed, if she had made up her mind, and yet … it was absurd. All that was ridiculous. Amanda was not only his: she
was
himself. Amanda … oh, he couldn’t be bothered to work it out. He must go to her … get to her … get … to … her.

Hutch caught him as he stumbled, and as they stood swaying together on the cobbles Campion was aware of some inner reserve of strength like a separate person within his body reaching down, down, and dragging his submerging faculties to the surface again. It was a staggering experience, like being rescued from drowning in a dream.

The Superintendent’s face, which had loomed very large, gradually resumed its normal proportions and his voice, which had receded to a distant hail, slipped back into tune.

‘You’ve overdone it, sir, that’s what you’ve done. We’re just by the station. You’ll have to sit down. You can’t go on for ever without sleeping or eating; no one can.’

The tone was plaintive and gently nagging.

‘You’ll go sick on your feet, and then where shall we be ?’

He was leading his charge all the time with the firm efficiency of long practice and they advanced upon the
unexpectedly
modern Police Station, set among the Tudor scenery, in spite of his companion’s incoherent protests.

A Police Sergeant met them on the doorstep and there was a muttered conference between him and his chief.

‘Is there?’ Hutch said at last. ‘I see. Yes. Yes, of course. Put it through at once. We’ll take it in the Charge Room.’ He turned to Campion anxiously. ‘There’s a personal call waiting for you, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s from Headquarters. Can you manage it? Are you all right?’

Campion had no clear impression of his passage through the station. He came back to himself as he sat staring into the black mouthpiece of the shabby telephone.

‘Yeo here, Mr Campion,’ said a voice in his ear. It was so small and quiet that it might have been the whisper of conscience. ‘Yeo. Have you got the Chief with you?’

‘Oates?’ Campion’s own voice was strong and apprehensive. It seemed to him that he was shouting.

‘Yes, sir. He’s gone. We can’t find him. He left his room here in the small hours of yesterday morning and hasn’t been heard of since. Is he with you?’

‘No, he’s not here.’

There was a long pause. It seemed to stretch into centuries and shrink again into a minute’s space. He had time to become aware of the light streaming in through the tall windows and of the green distemper on the wall at the end of the room.

The faraway voice spoke again.

‘Then it’s you alone now, sir. You’re the only one now who can do anything. None of the rest of us here even know the full strength. I don’t know if you think that’s wise, sir. The Chief was in sole control of his agents.’

Campion could not reply and after a pause the little voice came again.

‘Any … luck, sir?’

Campion closed his eyes and opened them again as once more the secret reserve which lies in every human body was pumped up into his veins.

‘Not yet,’ he said distinctly, ‘but there’s still an hour or two.’

Then he slipped forward across the table, his head in his arms.

IX

HE WOKE HOLDING
Amanda’s hand. He was so relieved to find it there, so comforted to see her, alive, friendly, and gloriously intelligent, that for a blessed moment he remained mindless and content. He lay looking at her with placid, stupid eyes.

‘You’re ill,’ she said, her clear, immature voice frankly anxious. ‘I’ve been trying to wake you for hours. What shall I do? Phone Oates?’

That did it. That brought him back to the situation with a rush. Everything he knew, everything he had discovered or experienced since he had awakened in the hospital bed, sped past his conscious mind like a film raced through a projector at treble speed. The effect was catastrophic. It took his breath away and left him sweating.

‘No,’ he said, struggling into a sitting position, while the whole top of his head seemed to slide backwards sickeningly. ‘No, that’s no good. I mean don’t do that. I’ll get up at once.’

‘All right,’ she agreed and he looked at her with deep affection. She was quite obviously worried about him and in her opinion he should have stayed where he was, but he was the boss and she was not arguing. She was so pretty, too, so young and vividly sensible. He liked her brown eyes and wished she would kiss him. The reflection that he had probably lost her for ever was such an incredible disaster that he put it away from him, unconsidered, and tightened his grip on her hand childishly.

‘How late am I?’

‘About an hour.’ She released herself gently. ‘You start the tour of inspection at ten. I’ll run you a bath and then go
down
and scrounge you some breakfast. You’ve got twenty minutes before you leave the house.’

‘Tour of inspection?’ he said dubiously. ‘What – er – what do I wear?’

He had hoped for a clue but for once she was unobliging.

‘Oh, just the simple uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet, I should think, don’t you?’

Her voice floating back from the other room was followed by the roar of his bath water.

‘Or you might stick to the old fireman’s outfit, of course. That’s bright and cheerful without being vulgar. I say,’ she added as she came in again, ‘what about those things? The servants here look as though they take a valet’s interest in one’s wardrobe. It’ll look so bad if you come in and find them neatly laid out on the bed. Shall I take them down and stuff them in the toolbox of the car?’

‘I wish you would. They’re in the cupboard,’ he said. ‘You’re very helpful, Amanda.’

She did not answer for a moment, but when she emerged from the armoire with her arms full of oilskins her cheeks were bright.

‘I’m still the Lieut,’ she said, facing him squarely. ‘You get up and see to that bath or we’ll have a flood. Time’s very short.’

Short! As the door closed behind him he realized how short time was and cursed himself for sleeping. He could only just remember the later events of the morning. Hutch had brought him home in a car and had put him to bed like a mother. Mercifully they had not given him alcohol at the Police Station. That might well have killed him with his head in its present condition. The Sergeant in charge had apologized, he remembered, and had substituted a stimulant fashionable in official circles at the moment, sweet weak tea. There had been gallons of it. The glucose had probably saved his life.

He said ‘probably’ because getting out of bed proved to be a major operation. However, the sleep had done him good. Miraculously he had lost his terror of his disability.
Now
he was merely exasperated by it. He did not realize that this phenomenon was nothing less than a return of his original singleness of purpose and that it was a far more dangerous condition. He only saw that there was work to be done, and he was alone to do it, and that time was desperately short.

By the time he staggered downstairs he was fairly clear about his immediate plan of campaign. The Masters were his best bet. They knew the secret of 15 if anyone did, since they were making it their main business of the evening. Lee Aubrey must be persuaded to tell him all there was to be known about the Masters. For the rest, since they had obviously arranged a programme for himself when he had been in full possession of his senses, that programme must be part of his original plan and the only thing to do was to go through with it.

He found Aubrey waiting for him in a brown and yellow morning-room. He was standing by the window looking with tragedian’s eyes at Amanda, who sat behind the silver. His greeting was gravely commiserating, as though he knew that lesser men had weaknesses and he could be tolerant and even a little envious of them.

Campion, watching him with his new child’s eyes, saw what Amanda liked in him and sized it up like a General inspecting enemy fortifications before the commencement of hostilities.

He made a hurried breakfast and, only half-way through the meal, realized that it was Lee who was waiting for him.

‘It’s too bad we can’t take you with us.’ Aubrey spoke to the girl with a frankness of regret which was almost indecent. ‘But I’m afraid it’s impossible. We’re not exactly wedded to the Government, but we’re rather definitely under its protection, in the eighteenth-century sense, and my instructions only apply to Campion. It’s all quite, quite mad, of course. I sometimes wonder if the fellows who set out these restrictions aren’t using a little too broad a rule. There’s not enough brains to go round, you know. That’s
the
fundamental weakness in the Government and everywhere else.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Amanda cheerfully. ‘I don’t want to see your old Institute. The whole show sounds like a municipal school of conjuring to me.’

Lee hesitated and it was only after a moment that his charming smile spread over his large curling features.

‘You shocked me,’ he said with disarming naïveté. ‘I get very parochial down here. One does. To hear the Masters called “municipal” gives me a sacrilegious thrill.’

‘They achieve almost international status, financially at any rate, don’t they?’ Campion’s thought was running on spice islands and he spoke unguardedly.

Lee raised his head and gave him one of his surprisingly intelligent stares.

‘They’re very wealthy, of course,’ he said primly.

‘Yes, well, there you are. A penny here and a penny there, it all mounts up over a period of years.’ Campion had intended to sound ignorant, but even he was unprepared for the degree of fatuous idiocy he managed to present.

Lee looked genuinely embarrassed and glanced at Amanda apologetically.

‘When you’re ready we’ll go,’ he said, and later, as he and Campion walked across the turf together, he took it upon himself to explain gently, choosing his words carefully as though talking to a child. ‘Historically the Masters are amazingly interesting,’ he began, reproval in his pleasant voice. ‘The family which was the leading spirit at their foundation never completely rotted away. The Letts have never produced any great men, but nor have they had any downright wrong ’uns, and there’s always been one moderately intelligent business man in every generation. The present fellow, Peter Lett, is just a good sound average brain like his uncle before him, and his grandfather and great-grandfathers before that. They’ve all been religious, respectable, and very parochial, while of course the curious hereditary and semi-secret structure of the society has been a tremendous safeguard. Financially the Masters have had
their
bad periods but they’ve never gone quite under. Their basic line is so good.’

‘What’s that?’

Aubrey seemed astounded. ‘Patents, of course,’ he said.

‘Patents?’

‘Well,’ he was laughing a little, ‘it was monopolies to begin with, naturally. Queen Elizabeth gave them their first big break. One of the kids in the little charity school they started up turned out to be the great Ralph Godlee, who invented the Godlee loom. The Masters got a monopoly on the manufacture of the things from the Queen and it revolutionized the wool-weaving industry over here, speeding up the production by about five hundred per cent and making the town’s fortune. The word “abridged” comes from it. It shortened the process. But you know all this as well as I do.’

Campion coughed. ‘At the moment there are gaps in my education,’ he admitted modestly. ‘Do go on. I find this fascinating. They’ve continued like this, have they? – first educating and then fleecing the investor?’

BOOK: Traitor's Purse
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