Flowers For the Judge (29 page)

‘She must eat,’ said Miss Curley in an undertone to Ritchie. ‘You come up with me and talk to her until I find something.’

Gina looked at Campion.

‘They’re making a strong case,’ she whispered. ‘Even John’s beginning to see it now. He stayed behind to speak to Cousin Alexander. It all fits in so horribly the way they put it.’

‘Wait till you hear the defence,’ said Campion, with forced cheerfulness. ‘The prosecution is always convincing till you hear the defence. Don’t worry.’

She looked at him as though he had said something absurd, smiled mechanically and passed on up the stairs, Miss Curley following her. Ritchie turned to Campion.

‘Better go,’ he said. ‘Poor girl!’

There was a pause in which he seemed to be struggling for words. Campion thought he had never seen such intensity of feeling in a face before.

‘To escape,’ said Ritchie suddenly. ‘Escape, Campion. Escape all… this.’

A great wave of a flail-like arm included, as far as his hearer could judge, the civilized world and all that lay within it.

Mr Campion made no direct reply. Apart from the fact that no one could ever be quite sure what Ritchie was talking about, there seemed to be no comment upon such passionate feeling which would not be an impertinence.

‘Good-bye,’ he said. ‘See you to-morrow.’

‘To-morrow,’ said Ritchie, and in his mouth the word had the bitterness of eternity.

Mr Campion went home. Age, he reflected, was beginning to tell on him, and, since he was a person not given to self-consideration, it came to him with all the force of a major discovery that nearly thirty-five and nearly twenty-five are two very different kettles of fish where nervous stamina and the ability to do without sleep are concerned.

He was so depressed by the thought that he decided to go to bed immediately upon arriving at Bottle Street, and would have done so had it not been for the visitor who awaited him.

Ex-Inspector Beth rose from his chair in the sitting-room and grinned as his host came in.

‘Didn’t expect to see me here, did you?’ he said. ‘And with the goods.’

‘No,’ said Campion truthfully. ‘I did not.’

‘He’s bin ’ere for an hour talking about ’imself, until you’d think ’e was still a flattie,’ observed Mr Lugg, who had wandered in from the next room, collarless and in his house coat.

‘Oh, I have, have I? Well, no one would think you were still a cat burglar,’ countered the ex-Inspector spitefully.

‘No, I’ve bettered meself,’ said Lugg, with ineffable complacency. ‘I’m a house gentleman now.’

‘What’s the report?’ cut in Mr Campion, who was not in the mood for cross-talk. ‘Anything definite?’

The visitor became business-like immediately.

‘Pretty good, Mr Campion, pretty good. As far as I can ascertain, nearly all the amounts paid into the bank-book since December last, and not handed in at the Holborn post office, were paid in by an elderly gentleman. Is that what you expected?’

‘Only “nearly all”?’ inquired Campion, with interest.

‘All those I could ascertain,’ said the ex-Inspector firmly and with reproach. ‘There are five instances in which the assistant remembered, because he or she thought it queer; two doubtfuls; and one plain rude and unhelpful.’

‘Any description of the man?’

‘Fair.’ The ex-Inspector consulted his notes. ‘Tall, thin, sixtyish, well-dressed, yellow face – that’s some person’s word alone – quiet, stranger to each office. Any good?’

‘Good enough,’ said Mr Campion.

‘Good enough for my own information. No good as evidence.’

‘I don’t see why not.’ The ex-Inspector was hurt. ‘Some of them remember him clearly. The idea of him doing it tickled ’em. You know what these youngsters are nowadays.’

‘Oh, it’s not your end. That’s fine.’ Campion spoke soothingly. ‘It’s the information received. That’s the part of the story I couldn’t pin down.’

Ex-Inspector Beth’s large face assumed a puzzled expression. He had never been a man who liked to see good work wasted, and he now mentioned the fact in passing.

‘For information received, was it?’ he continued. ‘That makes it darker still to me. I can’t see at all what you’re driving at, Mr Campion. The amounts were so small. If there was any hanky-panky you’d imagine they’d have been paid in cash.’

Campion sat down. He felt the ex-Inspector was entitled to an explanation, but had never felt less like making one in his life.

‘Beth,’ he demanded, ‘have you ever met a woman who conveyed interesting information without actually saying it?’

‘Hinting?’ inquired the ex-Inspector dubiously.

‘No, not exactly.’ Campion hesitated, looking for the word. ‘A woman who gossiped to the point,’ he said at last. ‘She knows, and you know, that she’s telling you something, and yet for reasons of discipline or dignity or discretion neither of you ever admit to the other that you are interested or she is informing. See what I mean?’

‘Exactly.’

Beth nodded sagaciously and Mr Campion, finding it easier than he had expected, went on.

‘Now suppose you want to reward such a woman. You want to encourage her and yet you don’t want to commit yourself by giving her money in her hand. You can’t trust her not to come out into the open with a direct question if you leave a pound note on her typewriter.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, suppose she sees your difficulty and one day you find her Post Office Savings Bank-book lying in your room. It may have been a mistake: it may not. What is to prevent you paying a pound or two in at an unfamiliar post office? If she likes to query it you know nothing about it. If she accepts the cash and it encourages her, well, you’re on the same footing as you were before. You’ve never come off your pedestal. You’ve never descended to a familiar word. You’ve done it and yet you haven’t done it.’

‘And if an old ex-policeman goes round asking questions?’ murmured the practical ex-Inspector Beth.

‘Ah,’ agreed Mr Campion, ‘but I don’t think you’re the
sort
of man who would imagine that possible. You’re a conceited beggar. You think your dignity gives you a special pass to ignore inquiring policemen and all their works. It’s your own personal dignity in relation to the woman who is your employee which counts with you. That’s the sort of man you are.’

‘Oh, am I?’ said the ex-Inspector. ‘Well, in that case, Mr Campion, you can take it from me that I might do abso-bally-lutely anything. What a tale! If you’ll pardon a professional question, how did you get on to it?’

‘She’s that sort of woman,’ said Mr Campion, and Beth was satisfied.

It was half an hour later before Campion got rid of him. Lugg was in lordly mood and in the vein for a bout with an old sparring partner, while the ex-Inspector evidently had time to waste. Eventually, however, he departed and Campion was thinking affectionately of his bed when the telephone summoned him to his feet again.

‘Hello, is that you, Campion?’ The dry precise voice sent a thrill through him. ‘John Widdowson here. I got your note.’

‘Oh yes?’ Campion heard his own voice studiously non-committal.

‘You made a most natural mistake.’ The tone was conciliatory, but by no means ingratiating. ‘You’ve discovered the manuscript in the safe is a copy, of course. I don’t think anyone knew that except myself. I congratulate you. It was made for my uncle many years ago and for reasons of extra special safety I put it in the place of the real play, so that if there should be any attempt at theft I should be doubly protected. You follow me?’

‘Perfectly.’ Campion’s inflection was unmistakable.

‘Good. Well, what I want to say is this. I feel that since you have made the discovery and it has evidently led you to a mistaken conclusion, I naturally very much want you to see the real manuscript, so that any – ah – unfortunate surmises you may have made can be contradicted. That’s quite reasonable, isn’t it?’

Mr Campion’s tired brain considered the concrete
evidence
he had gathered against the man at the other end of the wire and found it nil. He had no doubt that John Widdowson could have murdered his cousin, and in his heart he believed he had done so, but he realized that if the real
Gallivant
was still in the firm’s possession the motive he had so carefully reconstructed was gone, and if there was no motive the strongest part of the case fell to the ground.

John was still speaking.

‘I want you to see that manuscript and I want you to see it at once, so that you can concentrate on finding the truth. Mike’s life is in danger. We’ve got to move quickly before these imbeciles decide to hang him. I’m in conference with Sir Alexander now. He’s hopeful, I may tell you, but he realizes that it’s going to be a hard fight. We’re grateful for Rigget, Campion, but it’s not enough.’

There was urgency and anxiety in the voice, not unmixed with a hint of reproof, and Mr Campion found himself shaken by that rarest of the emotions, honest astonishment.

John went on.

‘I’m a little irritated, naturally. Although I do see exactly how the misapprehension arose. You are a friend of poor Mike’s, but you don’t know me. We will say no more about that. I admit that were I unable to produce the genuine manuscript my own position might very well be open to question. I see that now, although it certainly gave me a shock when you pointed it out. I want you to see the real manuscript, Campion.’

‘I should like to.’ Campion sounded annoyed, in spite of himself.

‘You must. You must see it at once. I want all your energies concentrated on Mike’s trouble. Will you give me your promise that you’ll settle this point to-night?’

Mr Campion’s weariness had given place to bewildered resignation.

‘Yes, of course. I want to see it.’

‘You’ll be able to recognize it, you think?’

‘I think so.’

‘Splendid. It’s not in a very inaccessible spot, thank God,
but
one of the safest I know, one where I keep things when I want them protected from the inquisitiveness of my own family. Do you know our Paul Jones premises?’

‘No,’ said Campion, who felt like a child waiting to see what would happen next.

‘They’re in the phone-book, of course.’ John was clearly trying to keep civil in the face of crass idiocy, and finding it difficult. ‘Eighty-seven, Parrot Street, Pimlico. It’s a large building. Take a cab. Any driver will know it. I can’t come with you myself, unfortunately, because I shall be closeted with Sir Alexander into the small hours. But I want you to go at once. You can’t do anything useful while you’re still on a wild-goose chase. You see that?’

Mr Campion found himself thinking, quite unpardonably, that he had never been treated as a blundering employee before and that the experience was refreshing, stimulating and probably good for the soul. Aloud he said:

‘All right. I’ll go.’

‘You’d be behaving like a young ass if you didn’t,’ said the voice, with some asperity. ‘I’ll telephone to the caretaker to admit you on your card. He won’t know where the manuscript is, of course. You’ll have to find that yourself from what I tell you now. It’s very simple. The last room on the fourth floor – that is to say, at the top of the building, is the directors’ office. The room number is forty-five. If you forget it the caretaker will show you. In the room is a carved desk – oak or ebony, I forget which – and in the left-hand top drawer you will find the key of the cupboard. Open it, and the manuscript is in a newspaper parcel on the second shelf with two or three others. My uncle always kept it like that. His contention was that no one would look for it there or recognize it if they found it, and when he gave over he passed the tip on to me. Lock up after you, of course.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Campion meekly.

‘I shall expect you to phone me later in the evening to tell me you’re satisfied, and, perhaps’ – the cold authoritative voice betrayed a hint of condescending amusement – ‘to apologize. I’ll phone the caretaker immediately. Oh,
wait
a moment; Sir Alexander may want to speak to you.’

There was a considerable pause while, presumably, Cousin Alexander was fetched from another room and then the magnificent voice rumbled over the wire.

‘That you, Campion? I’m sorry, but I must have John here for some time yet. Terribly sorry, my dear fellow, but anxious times, you know – anxious times. Good night.’

Before Mr Campion could reply he had gone and John had taken his place again.

‘Go along and satisfy your mind, my boy,’ he said. ‘You’ll know where you are then. As soon as you clear the line I’ll ring Jenkinson. He’ll be waiting for you. Goodbye.’

Mr Campion hung up the receiver and walked slowly back across the room. Standing by the window, looking down into the lamplit street, he tried to sort out thought from instinct and wished he were not so incredibly tired. That afternoon he had been sure of John’s guilt. Even now, when he considered his painfully forged chain of half-facts, he could not believe that it was composed entirely of unrelated coincidences; and yet, if John were innocent, could he possibly have made any more reasonable move than the present one? On the other hand, if he were guilty, what could he hope to gain by the production of yet another faked manuscript, or even no manuscript at all?

There was one other alternative, and Campion considered it in cold blood. In the course of an adventurous career he had received many invitations which had subsequently proved to be not at all as innocent as they at first appeared, and the common or garden trap was not by any means unknown to him. And yet, in cold blood, the absurdity of such a suggestion in the present case was inclined to overwhelm every other aspect.

While he was still wavering there returned to his mind a maxim often expounded by old Sergeant McBain, late of H Division: ‘If you think it’s a frame, go and see. Frames is evidence.’

Mr Campion put on his coat and had reached the front
door
when another thought occurred to him, and rather shamefacedly he returned to his desk and, taking a little Webley from its drawer, slid it into his pocket.

Leaning back in a taxicab nearly fifteen minutes later he surveyed Parrott Street, Pimlico, with interest. It was a long dingy road lined with solid slabs of Georgian housing, intersected by occasional side streets or great yawning gaps where demolition and rebuilding were in progress. Office staffs had long ago displaced the comfortable families for whom the houses were built, and at eight o’clock in the evening Parrott Street was a gloomy and deserted thoroughfare.