Mystery Mile (16 page)

Mr Campion shot him a swift glance.

‘No,' he said quietly, and was silent.

‘But she's gone. I tell you I've been everywhere. I've asked everybody. She hasn't been seen all the morning. Cuddy says that she last saw her after breakfast when she went into the drawing-room to write letters.'

‘Letters?' Campion spun round on the word. Behind his spectacles his pale eyes had become narrow and hard. ‘Are you sure?' he said, and his voice was more serious than Marlowe had ever heard it.

‘Why, yes,' he went on. ‘Cuddy says that she went straight in to her desk first thing after breakfast. Why –'

‘Come on,' said Mr Campion. He was already heading for the village at a brisk trot.

‘Ought to be shot!' he said breathlessly to Marlowe as they raced over the slippery turf together. ‘Never dreamed they'd act so soon. Was coming back to hold a committee meeting. Taking my time over it.'

When they reached the park gates he came to a halt.

‘I think, just to make sure that we're not making fools of ourselves, we'll drop into the Dower House,' he said. ‘Cuddy may have made a mistake. This looks very nasty, Marlowe.'

They hurried across the green and into the Dower House where Cuddy met them in the hall. The old woman was red-faced and annoyed.

‘Have you seen Miss Biddy, sir?' she said, fixing on Campion. ‘She was coming into the kitchen to give me a hand with the huffikins at twelve o'clock,' she said, ‘and here have I been waiting with my oven hot and the dough spoiling for the last three-quarters of an hour. I suppose I'd better get on with them alone.'

The apprehension in Mr Campion's pale eyes deepened.

‘I was looking for Biddy, myself, Cuddy,' he said. ‘When did you see her last?' Marlowe had gone on into the drawing-room, and the old woman glanced after him.

‘I told Mr Lobbett,' she said: ‘not since just after breakfast.' Her quick eyes took in Campion's expression, and she came a little closer to him. ‘Looks like you ain't goin' to have no chance,' she said, dropping her voice confidentially. ‘Be more serious-like. You can't tell what's goin' to please a girl.'

Campion did not smile. ‘May the best man win, you know, Cuddy,' he said with apparent gravity.

‘Yes, and I'm afraid he will,' said she. ‘When you see Miss Biddy tell her I couldn't wait no longer.'

She bustled off, and Campion hurried after Marlowe.

‘She must have been writing here,' he said. ‘Look.' He pointed to the open inkstand, the sheets of notepaper carelessly strewn about, and the empty stamp book lying on the polished wood. ‘There you are,' he said. ‘Campion, if anything happens to that girl, I'll commit murder.'

‘That,' said Mr Campion, ‘is the spirit. Come on.'

THE INTERIOR OF
Mr Kettle's shop, which was also the post office of Mystery Mile, provided one of those scenes of mingled profusion and constriction which can be equalled only by any other English village general shop. The whole place was hardly more than ten feet square, a little low room into which customers stepped down some inches from the garden path.

The wide counter divided the room in half, and over it, from floor to ceiling, the entire stock of bacon, hardware, boiled sweets, flypapers, bread, and groceries were displayed without any attempt at order.

The post office consisted of a wired-off enclosure at one end of the counter, the iron rail of which was decorated with licencing notices and pension forms.

An open doorway at the back of the shop revealed a glimpse of a small neat room decorated with a particularly unlovely grey-and-green wallpaper, a pair of aspidistras, and a model of a white horse given away with a whisky advertisement.

It was through this doorway that Mr Kettle advanced upon Campion and Marlowe as they stepped down into the shop.

A change in him was apparent immediately.

His pallor was even more striking than before, and there was a slightly shifty, troubled look in his pale eyes.

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?' he said, the nervousness in his voice unmistakable. Marlowe leaned across the counter, when a touch on his arm restrained him.

‘Miss Paget left her purse in here, she thinks, Mr Kettle,' said Campion pleasantly. ‘We shall have to have all this cleared away, you know' – he waved his hand at the miscellaneous collection round him, and rambled on foolishly.
‘Where's the exit in case of fire? Most dangerous, all this litter about the place. Now where's that purse?'

‘She didn't leave anything 'ere, sir.' Mr Kettle's voice was emphatic.

‘Fine!' said Campion with sudden enthusiasm. ‘Now we know where we are. Is she still in the house?'

Mr Kettle did not look at him, and Marlowe suddenly noticed that he was squinting horribly. He was standing perfectly still, his great flabby hands spread out upon the counter. Campion bent a little nearer and repeated his question softly.

‘Is she still in the house?'

A thin stream of saliva trickled out of the corner of Mr Kettle's mouth, and Marlowe, who until now had been utterly bewildered, realized with a shock that the man was paralyzed with terror. The sight nauseated him, but Campion was less impressed.

‘Don't be a fool, Kettle,' he said sharply. ‘We've only got to turn you over to the police. Better save a lot of bother and take us to her at once.'

The effect of this threat upon the man was as startling as his terror had been. He started back from them with an angry sound that was midway between a snarl and a hiccough. His fear had turned to a peculiarly vindictive type of satisfaction.

‘That's right! Bring in the police!' he said with unexpected violence. ‘Search the 'ouse! Turn me 'ole shop upside down. Stick your noses into every 'ole and corner of the place. And when you've finished that
I
shall 'ave something to say to the police. Where's Mr Lobbett, eh? 'Oo 'ushed up the parson's suicide? Why didn't you show them clothes to the police? You daren't bring the police 'ere! You . . .!'

The outburst came to an end at last, and a transformed Mr Kettle stood glaring at them across the two feet of worn counter. Gone and forgotten was his servility.

Mr Campion seemed entirely unmoved. He stood, his hands in his pockets, looking if anything a little more strikingly inane than usual. ‘It wouldn't be the Heronhoe police,' he said. ‘I think the county people would be interested.'

Mr Kettle remained unimpressed. ‘No police will worry me,' he said. ‘I've got nothing 'ere to 'ide.'

‘Good!' said Campion. ‘Now we understand one another better than ever.' His next remark seemed entirely casual. ‘You sell biscuits, I see, Mr Kettle?'

Marlowe glanced at his friend questioningly, only to find that he was regarding the postmaster fixedly. The young American was not prepared for the third change in Mr Kettle: his terror returned, and he looked at the pale young man before him in blank astonishment.

‘There, there,' said Mr Campion soothingly. ‘Here's a nice old lady coming down the path, Kettle. Pull yourself together. She'll want to be served. No self-respecting woman will buy a stamp off you if you squint like that.'

He had hardly finished speaking when Alice Broom came rustling into the shop. She nodded to the two young men.

‘Soda, please, Mr Kettle,' she said. ‘Nice after the rain, isn't it? How's your pore feet today?' She was evidently in a talkative mood, and Campion seemed disposed to pander to it.

‘I've been telling Mr Kettle he doesn't look any too bobbish,' he said. ‘What do you think, Alice? Excitement isn't healthy, is it?'

‘I don't know what excitement he'll be gettin' down 'ere,' she said. ‘I've got a bone to pick with un, too,' she added, the thought suddenly occurring to her. ‘I sent round last night askin' for a box to keep my rarebits in. 'E wouldn't let I have un, an' I seed he this mornin' packin' off crate after crate into that biscut van.'

Campion turned to Marlowe. ‘Another Old English custom for you,' he said. ‘We have our biscuits here by the crate.'

Alice shook her head at him. ‘'E's makin' game on you, sir,' she said. ‘Biscuts come in tins. Yes, biscuts come in tins.'

She repeated the phrase with a certain amount of satisfaction, and waddled out of the shop with a cheerful ‘Good-day, sirs.'

Campion beamed at Mr Kettle. ‘Biscuits come in tins,' he said. ‘And Mr Kettle returns the empty crates. That's very
interesting. I shouldn't be surprised if they didn't send a special van from London for them, eh?'

Mr Kettle moistened his lips. ‘I don't know what you've been 'earing –' he began desperately.

Campion grinned. ‘Our Albert hasn't been hearing anything – he's been seeing,' he said. ‘Suppose we go into that artistic little room through there, and go into the whole question peacefully and without fear of interruption?'

Mr Kettle did not move, nor did he make any protest when Marlowe lifted the counter flap and the two young men walked into the inner room.

‘Come in,' said Campion pleasantly, holding the door open for him.

The postmaster followed them silently. Campion shut the door behind him and set a chair. ‘I don't suppose the windows will open,' he observed. ‘What a pity, Kettle! You'd have got the smell of chloroform out by this time. As it is, I should think it would linger for days.'

Kettle did not speak, and a change came over Campion's face.

He leaned forward.

‘If she's been hurt, Kettle, I'll break my rule and kill you! Now then, animal, tell us all about it.'

Mr Kettle sat on the edge of his chair, his large hands spread out on the table, and looked neither to right nor to left.

‘Come on,' said Campion. ‘We know practically everything. Out with it.'

Still Mr Kettle remained silent, his mouth twitching. Marlowe took a step forward. ‘You'll tell us here and now,' he said, ‘or I'll smash you to pulp.'

‘No need,' said Campion. ‘What is he now? I see I may as well repeat the procedure to you, Kettle. We'll start at the beginning. A suit of clothes came into your hands, and you thought you'd be clever with them. You were – my hat you were. So thunderingly clever that you set not only us but your own dirty employers buzzing round your head. I gave you credit for so much stupidity, but what I didn't believe was that you'd be fool enough to tell your own people about it
yourself.' He turned to Marlowe. ‘That's where I miscalculated the time. Now,' he went on, returning to his victim, ‘you got orders to kidnap the first one of us that came into the shop, you and your precious daughter were to chloroform him, and I suppose the rest of the business was perfectly simple.'

It was evident from the look of wonderment on the postmaster's face that so far Campion had been very near the truth.

‘Having captured Biddy,' continued Mr Campion, ‘no doubt you telephoned some apparently innocent message to Heronhoe, or wherever the van was waiting, and along came the one vehicle that wouldn't be questioned by the police on the Stroud – a reputable-looking trade van. You loaded your crates into it, one of which contained the poor kid. Now then, where did they take her to?'

He had taken off his spectacles, and as he leaned across the table to the shivering man his pale eyes were bright and hard.

Mr Kettle made an inarticulate sound; his mouth sagged open.

‘If they find out you know all this they'll kill me,' he slobbered at last. ‘Oh, Mr Campion, sir' – he grovelled across the table, his hands plucking at the cloth – ‘don't let them ever know – don't let them ever know!'

‘Where have they taken her?' repeated Campion.

‘I don't know.' Mr Kettle was on the verge of tears: there was no doubting his sincerity. ‘I never seen either of 'em before. I get my orders by 'phone, in code. I wouldn't 'a' done it if I could 'a' 'elped it – reelly I wouldn't. I couldn't 'elp it – I 'ad to obey 'em.'

Mr Campion rose from the table where he had been seated.

‘I believe him,' he said gloomily. ‘I think perhaps the nastiest thing we can do is to leave him to his unspeakable pals.'

‘I'd tell you,' wailed Mr Kettle. ‘I'd tell you anything if only I knew it.'

‘I believe you would,' said Campion contemptuolisly. ‘I'm afraid there's no doubt they've kept you in the dark all right. They're not such fools that they don't know the type they've
got working for them. Come on, Marlowe. He'll keep his mouth shut for his own sake.'

Marlowe, as they strode across the green, looked at his companion curiously. ‘How much of this yarn of Kettle's did you know when you went into the store?' he said.

Campion frowned. ‘Not as much as I ought to have done,' he said bitterly. ‘And there's still a link I don't get. I told you, it was misjudging Kettle's abysmal idiocy that put me out. I knew they couldn't have got going on the job so soon after the discovery of the clothes unless they had heard about it at the same time we did; and that was only possible if our friend Kettle told them himself. As he'd made such a hash of it, I didn't dream he would. But he did, and I should think from the look of him that they had come down hot and strong.'

‘Then it was Kettle who doctored those clothes?'

‘Not a doubt of it. Though heaven only knows how he got hold of them. The only thing that matters at the moment is Biddy,' he went on suddenly, lifting up his head. ‘Get her back and then we can start.'

‘I'm with you there,' said Marlowe with conviction. ‘What are you going to do?'

Campion shrugged his shoulders impatiently. ‘God only knows,' he said. ‘The old mental machinery seems to have conked out altogether.'