Mystery Mile
Authors: Margery Allingham
Contents
Also by Margery Allingham in the Albert Campion series
7 By the Light of the Hurricane
9 âIn Event of Trouble . . .'
10 The Insanity of Swithin Cush
15 The Exuberance of Mr Kettle
24 âOnce More Into the Breach, Dear Friends'
Judge Crowdy Lobbett has found evidence pointing to the identity of the criminal mastermind behind the deadly Simister gang. After four attempts on his life, he ends up seeking the help of the enigmatic and unorthodox amateur sleuth, Albert Campion.
After Campion bundles Lobbett off to a country house in Mystery Mile deep in the Suffolk countryside, all manner of adventures ensue. It's a race against time for Campion to get the judge to safety and decipher the clue to their mysterious enemy's name.
Margery Allingham was born in London in 1904. She attended the Perse School in Cambridge before returning to London to the Regent Street Polytechnic. Her father â author H. J. Allingham â encouraged her to write, and was delighted when she contributed to her aunt's cinematic magazine,
The Picture Show
, at the age of eight.
Her first novel was published when she was seventeen. In 1928 she published her first detective story,
The White Cottage Mystery
, which had been serialised in the
Daily Express
. The following year, in
The Crime at Black Dudley
, she introduced the character who was to become the hallmark of her writing â Albert Campion. Her novels heralded the more sophisticated suspense genre: characterised by her intuitive intelligence, extraordinary energy and accurate observation, they vary from the grave to the openly satirical, whilst never losing sight of the basic rules of the classic detective tale. Famous for her London thrillers, such as
Hide My Eyes
and
The Tiger in the Smoke
, she has been compared to Dickens in her evocation of the city's shady underworld.
In 1927 she married the artist, journalist and editor Philip Youngman Carter. They divided their time between their Bloomsbury flat and an old house in the village of Tolleshunt D'Arcy in Essex. Margery Allingham died in 1966.
The Crime at Black Dudley
Look to the Lady
Police at the Funeral
Sweet Danger
Death of a Ghost
Dancers in Mourning
Flowers for the Judge
The Case of the Late Pig
Mr Campion and Others
The Fashion in Shrouds
Black Plumes
Coroner's Pidgin
Traitor's Purse
The Casebook of Mr Campion
More Work for the Undertaker
The Tiger in the Smoke
The Beckoning Lady
The China Governess
The Mind Readers
A Cargo of Eagles
Mr Campion's Farthing
Mr Campion's Falcon
To P.Y.C. and A.J.G.
Partners in Crime
Margery Allingham
âI'LL BET YOU
fifty dollars, even money,' said the American who was sitting nearest the door in the opulent lounge of the homeward-bound
Elephantine,
âthat that man over there is murdered within a fortnight.'
The Englishman at his side glanced across the sea of chairs at the handsome old man they had been watching. âTen pounds,' he said. âAll right, I'll take you. You've no idea what a safe little place England is.'
A slow smile spread over the American's face. âYou've got no idea what a dangerous old fellow Crowdy Lobbett is,' he said. âIf your police are going to look after him they'll have to keep him in a steel bandbox, and I don't envy them that job. It's almost a pity to take your money, though I'm giving you better odds than any Insurance Corporation in the States would offer.'
âThe whole thing sounds fantastic to me,' said the Englishman. âBut I'll meet you at Verrey's a fortnight today and we'll make a night of it. That suit you?'
âThe twenty-second,' said the American, making a note of it in his book. âSeems kind of heathen celebrating over the old man's corpse. He's a great old boy.'
âDrinking his health, you mean,' said the Englishman confidently. âScotland Yard is very spry these days. That reminds me,' he added cheerfully, âI must take you to one of our night clubs.'
On the other side of the ship's lounge the loquacious Turk who had made himself such a nuisance to his fellow passengers since they put out from New York was chattering to his latest victim.
âVery courageous of him to come down for the concert,' he
was saying. âHe's a marked man, you know. I don't think there's any doubt about that. Four murders in his household within the past month and each time his escape was a miracle.'
His victim, a pale young man who seemed to be trying to hide behind his enormous spectacles, woke out of the reverie into which he had fallen ever since the talkative Oriental had first tackled him and surveyed his persecutor owlishly. âNot that nice old gentleman over there?' he said. âThe one with the white hair? Four murders in his house within a month? That ought to be stopped. He's been told about it, I suppose?'
Since this was the first remark with which the young man had favoured him, the bore jumped to the conclusion that he had inadvertently stumbled on a mental case. It was inconceivable to him that anyone should not have heard of the now famous Misfire Murders, as the Press had starred them, which had filled the New York papers for the past four weeks. The young man spoke.
âWho is the stormy old petrel?' he said.
His companion looked at him with some of the delight which a born gossip always feels upon finding an uninformed listener. His heavy red face became animated and he cocked his curious pear-shaped head, which alone betrayed his nationality, alertly on one side.
âThat fine old man, typical of the best type of hard-bitten New Englander,' he began in a rhetorical whisper, âis none other than Judge Crowdy Lobbett. He has been the intended victim of an extraordinary series of crimes. I can't understand how you've missed reading about it all.'
âOh, I've been away in Nebraska for my health,' said the young man. âHe-man stuff, you know,' he added in his slightly falsetto voice.
He spoke with the utmost gravity, and the old man nodded unsuspectingly and continued.
âFirst his secretary, seated in his master's chair, was shot,' he said slowly. âThen his butler, who was apparently after his master's Scotch, got poisoned. Then his chauffeur met with a very mysterious accident, and finally a man walking with him down the street got a coping stone on his head.' He sat back
and regarded his companion almost triumphantly. âWhat do you say to that?' he demanded.
âShocking,' said the young man. âVery bad taste on someone's part. Rotten marksmanship, too,' he added, after some consideration, âI suppose he's travelling for health now, like me?'
The Turk bent nearer and assumed a more confidential tone.
âThey say,' he mumbled, in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his voice down, âthat it was all young Marlowe Lobbett could do to get his father to come to Europe at all. I admire a man like that, a man who's not afraid of what's coming to him.'
âOh, quite!' said the young man mildly. âThe neat piece of modern youthing with the old gentleman is the son you spoke of, I suppose?'
The Turk nodded.
âThat's right, and the girl sitting on his other side is his daughter. That very black hair gives them a sort of distinction. Funny that the boy should be so big and the girl so small. She takes after her mother, one of the Edwardeses of Tennessee, you know.'
âWhen's the concert going to begin?'
The Turk smiled. He felt he had consummated the acquaintanceship at last.
âMy name is Barber,' he said. âAli Fergusson Barber â a rather stupid joke of my parents, I have always thought.'
He looked inquiringly at his companion, hoping for a similar exchange of confidence, but he was unrewarded. The young man appeared to have forgotten all about him, and presently to the Oriental's complete disgust, he drew a small white mouse from the pocket of his jacket and began to fondle it in his hands. Finally he held it out for Mr Barber's inspection.
âRather pretty, don't you think?' he said. âOne of the cabin boys lent it to me. He keeps it to remind him of his brother, Haig. He calls it Haig, after him.'
Mr Barber looked down his immense nose at the little creature, and edged away from it.
The young man said no more, for already a very golden-haired lady with pince-nez was playing the Sixth Hungarian Rhapsody with a certain amount of acid gusto.
Her performance was greeted with only mild enthusiasm, and the Turk overcame his repugnance to the noise sufficiently to lean over and inform the young man that there were several stage stars travelling and no doubt the programme would improve as it went on. For some time, however, his optimism was unrewarded.
At length the fussy, sandy-haired young man who was superintending the performance came forward with the announcement that Satsuma, the world-famous Japanese conjurer, was to perform some of his most celebrated illusions, and the audience's patience was craved while the stage was made ready for him.
For the first time Mr Barber's companion seemed to take an intelligent interest in the proceedings and he joined enthusiastically in the applause.
âI'm potty about conjurers,' he remarked affably. âHaig will like it too, I fancy. I'm most interested to see the effect upon him.'
Mr Barber smiled indulgently.
âYou are making jokes,' he said naïvely.
The young man shot him a quick glance from behind his spectacles. âI do a little conjuring myself,' he went on confidentially. âAnd I once knew a man who could always produce a few potatoes out of the old topper, or a half bottle of Bass. He once got in some champagne that way, but it wasn't much of a brand. Hullo! what's going on up there?'