Flowers For the Judge (22 page)

They left the car and continued on foot. For one who professed to have left this particular world behind him Mr Lugg found his way among the maze of small streets with remarkable precision.

‘’Ere we are,’ he said at last. ‘Now, look casual but not ’alf-witted. I don’t want ’im to think I’ve turned up with a Killarney.’

Mr Campion, who in the course of a long association had come to realize that living up to Mr Lugg was an impossibility, remained much as usual and they paused in the narrow, dusty little road littered with paper bags and kitchen refuse while Lugg went through an elaborate pantomime of noticing a small shop some few doors down on the opposite side.

‘Why, there’s Mr Samson’s joint!’ he said, with theatrical astonishment. ‘I wonder if ’e’s still alive? I’d better go and look ’im up. Just the same! The ole place ’asn’t changed since I was a boy.’

At first sight the Samson emporium was not impressive. It consisted of a very narrow door and a small window. Both were incredibly dirty and, while one revealed an even dingier interior, the other displayed a collection of old iron ranging from nails to the back of bedsteads, a notice which announced that shoe leather could be purchased within, and a quantity of cheap new razor-blades. There was also, Mr Campion noticed, a hank of bass, two large bales of twine and a skein of very thick elastic labelled ‘For Catapults’. This last was crossed out very lightly, and ‘Model Aeroplanes’ substituted in wavering pencil.

With the nonchalance of a loiterer observing a policeman, Mr Lugg lounged into the shop, beckoning Mr Campion to follow him with a jerk of his shoulder.

It took them some moments to accustom their eyes to the darkness. The atmosphere, which was composed of a nice blend of rust, leather and Irish stew, took a bit of assimilating also, and Campion felt his feet sink into a sand of dust and iron filings.

There was a movement in the shop, followed by a snuffling, and presently a bright young man with a white face, dusty yellow hair and an inquiring manner, sauntered towards them. Mr Lugg showed surprise.

‘Business changed ’ands?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘I come reely to inquire after an old friend, Mr Samson.’

The young man eyed Mr Lugg from the toes of his boots to the top of his hat.

‘One of the old brigade, aren’t yer?’ he said cheekily, his narrow blue eyes astute and appraising.

Mr Lugg was momentarily taken off his balance.

‘’Ere, what’re you gettin’ at?’ he said, taking a menacing step forward. ‘When I want any lip from two penn’orth of string-bag I’ll ask for it.’

In spite of a certain flabbiness induced by high life, Mr Lugg was still a formidable opponent, and he was not alone. The young man retreated.

‘Gran’dad’s in the back,’ he said. ‘If you’ll tell me your name I’ll go and see if he remembers you.’

‘Gran’dad?’ said Mr Lugg, a repulsively sentimental smile appearing on his great white face. ‘Don’t tell me you’re little Alfie? Not little Alfie what I danced up an’ down on me knee?’

‘Charlie,’ said the young man, without enthusiasm.

‘Charlie! That was it. Rosie’s boy – little Rosie. ’Ow’s your mother, son?’

‘’Aven’t seen ’er since she went off with a rozzer,’ said the young man, with that complete carelessness which is more chilling than any rebuke. ‘I’ll go and tell Gran’dad. What’s yer name?’

‘Just tell ’im Maggers is ’ere,’ said Lugg, who was beginning to enjoy himself for the first time, Mr Campion felt, for years. ‘Shall I come with you?’

‘No. You stay ’ere,’ said Charlie, with the first show of animation he had yet exhibited, and disappeared into the darkness.

Mr Lugg chuckled in a fatherly fashion.

‘I remember ’im being born,’ he said, with inexplicable pride. ‘’Ear what ’e called me? – “Old Brigade”! That’s ’cos ’e knows I’m after a key. ‘Is pals use oxy-acetylene. Nasty dangerous stuff. When that come on the market I knew my time was over.’

‘’E’ll see yer. Come on.’

Charlie did not emerge from the shadows to make this announcement and they groped forward in the direction of his voice. After passing through a living-room, into which the iron filings had percolated in the course of years, and
which
was apparently the fountain-head of the Irish stew, they came quite unexpectedly into the bright light of day. Their way led across a minute yard, dirty to a degree unknown by most users of the word, and into a small shed festooned with old bicycle tyres.

Seated at a bench was a large blank-faced old man, bald as an egg and clad in a very loose shirt and surprisingly tight trousers, whose original colour could only be surmised. The round face was at once mild and cunning and possessed the serenity of a Buddha.

‘Wardie!’ said Mr Lugg, enraptured, adding a little inopportunely: ‘I thought you was dead.’

The old man smiled enigmatically as he held out a hand, and it occurred to Mr Campion that he was deaf.

‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, and his voice had a husky, secretive quality.

Lugg deserted Campion. He went round the back of the bench and seated himself beside the old man.

‘I’m Maggers, Wardie,’ he said, thrusting a mighty arm round the other man’s shoulders. ‘You remember me? I’m the fellow what was sweet on yer second daughter – the one what died. I’m coming back to yer, aren’t I?’

‘Lugg,’ said the old man suddenly. ‘Young Lugg.’

They shook hands again solemnly and with great sentiment.

‘Can you ’ear me?’ said Mr Lugg, rumbling into one of the great ears.

‘Course,’ said the old man. ‘’Eard you all the time. Didn’t know oo you were. Oo’s yer friend?’

‘Young fellow I go round with,’ said Mr Lugg shamelessly. ‘You know me, Wardie: I wouldn’t tell you wrong. Me and my pal we want a bit of ’elp from you.’

He cocked an eye at his employer.

‘You tell ’im, Bert.’

Mr Campion explained his business as well as he could.

‘It’s about a key,’ he said. ‘Lugg and I wondered if you could tell us anything about a key which a man picked up down here in Camden Town on Thursday, the twenty-eighth of January last. It’s a long time ago, I know, but I
thought
you might remember. He was a well-dressed fellow, forty-fiveish, dark, and spoke well.’

Wardie Samson shook his large round head.

‘I don’t know anything about keys,’ he said. ‘We don’t sell ’em.’

Lugg burst into a roar of unnatural laughter.

‘You’re takin’ Bert for a ’tec!’ he said. ‘That’s a good one, that is! Old Bert a split! That’ll be one to tell the boys!’

Wardie’s inflamed and rheumy eyes shifted nervously.

‘Can’t tell yer about a key,’ he said. ‘Don’t know.’

Mr Campion took a chance.

‘It’s private information I want,’ he said. ‘I’m willing to pay for it and I’ll give you any assurance you like that you will never be questioned about it again. I am a detective, if you like, but I’m not a police detective. I’m not interested in your business, and all I want is a description, or, better still, a mould, of a key which the man I am interested in had made in this district. That’s all I want. After I walk out of this shop you can swear blind you’ve never seen me before. Lugg won’t act as a witness.’

The old man, who had been watching Campion carefully throughout this recital, seemed impressed.

‘What date did you say, guv’nor? The twenty-eighth of January? Seems to me I read an interestin’ bit in the paper about a gentleman who got his on that day. It wouldn’t be him you was interested in, would it?’

‘That’s the ticket,’ said Mr Lugg heartily. ‘Now you’re bein’ sensible. We’re just blokes oo’ve come to an old pal for a bit of ’elp. As for that chap, ’e can’t buy anything off you again, can ’e? ’E’s in ’is box.’

Mr Samson seemed to have decided that his visitors were on the level, but he retained his caution of voice and expression, which seemed to be habitual.

‘I sent ’im a letter telling ’im it was ready and ’e come down right away. Said ’e’d destroyed the letter for ’is own sake.’

He cocked an eye at Campion, who nodded reassuringly.

‘He had. We came to you by chance. Have you destroyed the impression?’

The old man nodded and seemed to debate within himself for a moment or so. Then, with a glance at Lugg that was almost affectionate, he opened a small drawer in the bench in front of him and, after rummaging in it for some time, produced a large, old-fashioned key. He threw it down in front of Campion.

‘Always make two for luck,’ he said, and the faintest suggestion of a smile flickered for an instant round his mouth.

Another search in the drawer produced a dirty envelope. ‘Paul R. Brande,’ he spelt out awkwardly. ‘Twenty-three, Horsecollar Yard, Holborn, W.C.1.’

Mr Campion took the key and Lugg waved him out of the shed.

‘Me and Wardie will fix this little matter up between us,’ he said magnificently.

Mr Campion waited in the filth of the yard for some considerable time, and Lugg finally appeared.

‘Three pound ten,’ he said. ‘I know it’s a lot, but you ’ave to pay for these things.’

Mr Campion parted with the money and presently, with the key safely stowed in his pocket, he once more approached the garage where the car was parked. As they settled down and Campion turned the Lagonda out into the Hampstead Road Lugg nudged him.

‘’Ere’s thirty-five shillings that belongs to you,’ he said. ‘I did a split with Wardie. It’s the worst of these dishonest people. They always expect you to live down to ’em.’

EVEN IF MR LUGG
was as hurt as he looked when his employer dropped him at the corner of Regent Street, at least he refrained from referring to himself as a ‘worn-out glove’, an unsuitable simile of which he was very fond,
having
, so he said, read it somewhere and thought it ‘the ticket.’

Campion went on alone to Horsecollar Yard. He had no desire to discuss his afternoon’s work with Gina, and was wondering how he could get into Number Twenty-three without disturbing her, John, or an inquisitive policeman when he observed a familiar figure striding out of the cul-de-sac.

Ritchie Barnabas possessed a striking appearance at all times, but, seen at a reasonable distance in the lamp-lit dusk of a spring evening, he presented a spectacle of fantasy. He lolloped along at a great pace, each knee giving a little as it took his weight, and his great arms flapping about him like the wings of an intoxicated crow.

He pulled up with a jerk which almost overbalanced him as the Lagonda slid to a standstill at his side, and thrust an anxious face into Campion’s own.

‘The key of the office?’ he repeated after the younger man had made the request. ‘Certainly. Let you in myself. All the cousins and Miss Curley have keys. John’s out, anyway. Gone to see Alexander.’

All the time he was speaking he watched Campion’s face with the eager but diffident curiosity of a child. The other man found himself apologizing.

‘If I had anything definite I’d tell you,’ he said, ‘but at the moment I’ve only got an idea, supported by two or three dubious facts.’

Ritchie nodded humbly and his blue eyes blinked trustingly at his friend. He opened the front door of Twenty-three and hesitated.

‘Wait for you?’ he inquired hopefully.

‘I shouldn’t.’ Unconsciously Mr Campion spoke in that firm but regretful tone with which one tries to persuade a strange and friendly dog not to accompany one home.

‘All right,’ Ritchie agreed sadly. ‘Lock up behind you. Good night.’

He strode off, to return at once.

‘Only live in Red Lion Square, you know address,’ he murmured. ‘There if wanted. Any hour.’

He went off again, successfully this time, and Mr Campion set about his investigations, blessing the idiosyncrasy of the firm of Barnabas, which made them elect to have their offices cleaned out in the early morning instead of at night.

It was practically dark indoors, and the big untidy rooms looked unfamiliar in the gloom ; nor were they particularly silent. The ticking of clocks, the stir of papers in a draught and the vibrations of the nearby Underground railway combined to make the place sound alive.

Anxious not to advertise himself, Campion did not turn on the lights, but relied upon his torch. He went up to Miss Curley’s room, a neatly kept glass and panelling cubicle built round one window in the typists’ office. The strong-room key hung upon its hook on the inside of the old-fashioned desk. As soon as he handled it one of Mr Campion’s minor theories collapsed gently, to be replaced by a sense of misgiving and a wholly unwarrantable suspicion of the innate honesty of Wardie Samson.

He compared the two keys as they lay side by side on the desk in the gleam of his torch. Apart from the fact that they were both of the ordinary or old-fashioned type and were both over four inches long, it would have been difficult to find two such instruments more dissimilar. The key of the strong-room door was long and slender with three wards, but the key which Wardie Samson had made for luck was squat and heavy and had that curious unsatisfactory appearance which is peculiar to old-fashioned patent devices which have never been really successful.

Mr Campion turned it over thoughtfully and an idea occurred to him. Placing both keys in his pocket, he went slowly downstairs. It was growing darker and the well of the front hall, which had no windows to admit the gleam from the street lamps, was completely black.

Because it is natural to keep quiet in the dark, Mr Campion trod gently. At the top of the stone staircase leading down into the basement he paused to listen. His quick ears had detected something that was not one of the ordinary night noises and his interest quickened. It did not come again, however, and he went on.

On the landing, where the stair turned to face the basement wall he paused abruptly, extinguishing his torch. Below him, at the end of the passage, a thin angle of light gleamed in the darkness. The strong-room door was ajar and there was a light within, a fact which might not have been so very astonishing even out of office hours had he not carried the only official key in his pocket.