Mystery Mile (26 page)

The flippancy sounded bizarre, almost terrifying in the fetid, breathless atmosphere.

‘We're in luck,' said Giles. ‘The tide's more than three-quarters' way up. Keep well in, keep well in.'

They were standing nearly opposite the little hut where so few days before old Lobbett had changed his clothes before joining George in the rowboat. The grass had come to an end, and all around them was the mud, squelching and gurgling as the sea came nearer and nearer.

‘Up to here you're safe.' Giles spoke emphatically. ‘From now on, for God's sake look out. This is the hard side. All round the hut on the sea side the “soft” begins. It stretches across here unevenly. It shifts, you know, but I'm afraid we've got to risk that.'

Campion was peering forward into the circle of light thrown by the lantern. There was a thin white line on the mud a few feet ahead showing dimly through the mist. It was the oncoming tide.

‘How high does this come?' said Campion, indicating it.

‘Up to where the grass stops,' said Giles. ‘It stops just short of the hut, except in September in the neap tides. Can you see the boat?'

‘There it is,' said the judge, preparing to step forward.

Giles jerked him back. ‘You've got to feel it step by step now,' he said. ‘Hold the lantern high, Campion.'

The boat was rocking gently, just clear of the bottom, only a few yards out.

Giles ripped off his shoes and stockings. ‘I'll have more chance if I find the “soft”,' he explained. Then he stepped forward gingerly, trying each step with the utmost caution.

Campion glanced back over his shoulder. Far back among the trees he fancied he saw moving lights.

‘Hurry,' he whispered softly, ‘hurry.'

Giles went on steadily. Once he started back, plunged, and
righted himself. He reached the boat and clambered in.

‘It's all right if you walk straight at me,' he said. ‘Come on. I daren't bring her in nearer or she'll ground.'

Campion gripped the older man's arm. ‘Off you go,' he said. ‘Just set your mind on the boat and get there. Tell Giles to make for Heron Beach, or if he can't in this light to get out into the stream and stay there.'

It was not until the judge had completed his unsteady journey to the bobbing rowboat that he realized that Campion was still standing on the bank, lantern in hand.

‘Come on,' said Giles, raising his voice.

‘Shut up, you fool! Row out or I'll plug you – with my water pistol.' Campion's whisper had a peculiarly carrying quality, although he was so far away they heard him perfectly.

‘Rot!' Giles proceeded to draw in.

‘For the love of Mike, get on! No heroics.' Campion's voice was imploring. ‘You haven't a minute to spare and everything depends on it. You'll spoil everything. Trust your Uncle Albert.'

‘Boy, you can't do this.' Crowdy Lobbett's tone was dangerously obstinate.

‘Giles,' commanded Campion, ‘pull straight if you don't want us all murdered, and stay out, whatever you hear. If that dear old stowaway of yours makes any noise, for the love you bear his daughter, dot him on the head with an oar.'

Giles had known Campion for many years. So far he had never disobeyed him. This, he realized, was quite obviously the last moment at which to waver. He made up his mind.

Dipping the oars softly into the water, he pulled out to the centre of the estuary.

Campion waved the lantern to him enthusiastically. Giles's last glimpse of him was of a lank wild figure standing upon the bank, the hurricane held above his head in a ridiculous gesture.

‘I loved Ophelia!' he bellowed with great dramatic effect. ‘It's the tobacco that counts!'

With which cryptic utterance he walked quietly back along the edge of the bank, dropped into the mist tunnel, and advanced towards the hut. He climbed the wooden steps and
hung the hurricane carefully upon the corner of the door so that the light could be clearly seen for some distance. Then, taking his torch out of his pocket, he stepped in.

The hut, which was built up on piles some four feet high, contained a rough flat table, supported by one leg and a couple of hinges in the wall. On one side was a shelf set low enough to form a seat.

The young man looked round him carefully. Apart from a certain amount of odd boat tackle and an empty wooden box, the place was quite empty. The only other thing of interest was the fact that the floor boards at the back of the hut, directly under the form, had been removed, doubtless to prevent the sea from carrying it away at phenomenally high tides.

Campion sat down on the form, and placing his lighted torch beside him on the table, took out the child's book that he had brought from the house.

Sinbad the Sailor and Other Stories
. He turned over the pages one by one, past Frontispiece, Dedication, Preface, and Editor's Note. The list of contents caught his eye – children's stories that he had known all his life. Anything more fatuous at a time like this it was impossible to imagine.

His eye wandered down the list. ‘Sinbad the Sailor', ‘Aladdin and His Wonderful Lamp'. Suddenly his glance became fixed.

A title leaped up at him from the page. He put his hand over it and stared out into the darkness. His face was blank, his eyes dull behind his spectacles.

‘I've gone mad,' he said aloud, his voice strangely subdued. ‘It's happened at last. I'm insane. “Ali Fergusson Baba and the Forty Thieves”.'

CAMPION, ALONE IN
the hut on the marshes, listened to the dying ring of his own voice, and then taking off his spectacles he wiped his face with a huge pocket handkerchief, and stared into the little haze of light which the hurricane made outside the narrow door.

Minutes passed, and he remained there looking blankly ahead of him: the silence was unbearable. Then very softly out in the darkness beyond the screen of light something moved. Instantly he sat up stiffly, listening, his head thrust forward.

At first he fancied that he had heard no more than the movement of some wild thing on the saltings, or the ominous clucking of the mud, but the sound came again, nearer this time and more distinct – footsteps on the short wiry grass.

Campion thrust the book he held into his jacket pocket. His torch followed it. He sat silent, waiting.

Someone trod softly on the wooden steps leading up to the hut; he could hear the creak of the ancient wood as it trembled under a heavy weight.

The next instant the lantern was snatched from its mooring, and a shape, ponderous and elephantine, stood in the doorway.

Mr Barber was barely recognizable. The genial, rather stupid old gentleman had vanished, and in his place there looked out at the young man at the table something mocking and incredibly evil hiding within this monument of flesh.

‘You are alone?' he said inquiringly. ‘You are very clever, my friend.'

Campion grinned at him; his expression was if possible even more fatuous than usual.

‘Spoken like a true gent,' he said. ‘If you would sign that for me it might do me a lot of good.'

The man who called himself Ali Fergusson Barber moved over to the table, where he set down the lamp and stood towering above the pale young man, who appeared dwarfed and negligible beside him.

‘Perhaps it is as well,' he said. ‘I fancy it is time that you and I had a little discussion together, Mr Rudolph K—.' He mentioned a name which so startled the young man before him that he betrayed himself with an exclamation.

The older man smiled faintly. ‘I have here, my young friend, he said, drawing a paper out of his pocket, 'a most interesting dossier. I assure you it contains some very remarkable reading. You and I have both made the same mistake. We underestimated each other, Mr—.'

‘Shall we say Campion?' said the young man, his vacant smile returning. ‘Now perhaps, since we're getting so matey, we'll go into another matter. Who the hell are you?'

The other man laughed, and just for a moment there was a trace of the old art expert in his face. The next moment it had vanished again, and he was once more this new and vivid personality.

‘I am a man of integrity,' he said. ‘I have never made the mistake of using an alias. It would be silly of me to try and disguise myself, and also very tiring. I live my own life.'

Campion shrugged his shoulders. ‘You know your own limitations better than I do,' he said. ‘Still, I could have suggested another name for you. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. There's a soap box over there.'

Mr Barber accepted the seat. ‘I suppose you've got Lobbett away by sea, as you did before,' he said easily. ‘That was very clever of you, Mr Campion. We shall have no difficulty in dealing with that old gentleman, I fancy. But my chief interest at the moment is in you.'

The change in the man was extraordinary. It occurred to Campion that no disguise he might have adopted could have concealed him half as effectively as this remarkable new personality, which he seemed to drop and adopt at will.

‘As you have no doubt guessed,' he went on, ‘I am a representative of one of the cleverest organizations in the world. In fact, I believe that you were once commissioned by us on a rather delicate mission in an affair at a house called Black Dudley. On that occasion you failed. What was the cause I do not know, but perhaps that explains why we took your entrance into this particular business as so negligible a matter. It may interest you to know that I and my superiors have now considered it worth while to offer you a position in our organization.'

‘Sign along the dotted line,' said Mr Campion. ‘Please tear carefully. Nothing genuine without this signature.'

The face before him was expressionless. Mr Barber's altered voice went on. ‘That rather irritating humour of yours – I suppose that's involuntary.'

‘That's a remark that might have been better put,' said the young man.

‘I suppose that it is an asset,' the other man remarked judicially. ‘But a distressing price to have to pay for business efficiency.'

‘In replying to yours of the fifth ult,' said Campion, ‘I take it that you are making me an offer?'

His visitor nodded. ‘Exactly,' he said. ‘This man Lobbett is making himself a nuisance to our organization. We believe that he has, or thinks he has, a key to a secret so important that it is impossible for me to discuss it with you. I don't need to tell a man of your intelligence any more. A settlement of this affair would be the best introduction you could have, and I can assure you personally that you will never regret it.'

‘I suppose I should live in?' remarked Campion thoughtfully. ‘All found, washing done by the firm, and perhaps a Circassian or two thrown in when times were good?'

The older man folded his hands. ‘I appreciate your humour,' he said seriously. ‘Your remuneration would be in no sense inadequate. I should like to point out that your alternative is complete exposure. What do you say?'

‘Cheek,' said Mr Campion. ‘Now I'm going to talk. First of all, how did it happen that you were waiting for us with your
neat little put-up job? And why? Bit of a bow at a venture, wasn't it?'

‘Not at all. I knew my telegram would bring you. Women are a great handicap in affairs of this sort, Mr Campion.'

‘Oh yes, of course.' The young man spoke hastily, an inkling of what had happened occurring to him.

‘I admit you were too quick for me,' the other continued. ‘Foolishly I imagined that you would search the house for the young woman and then appeal to me. I should have been easy to revive. We had received the information that the document which old Lobbett set such store upon was a bulky affair. I argued therefore that he would have left it at the house, carefully hidden. Since it was useless for me to search for something I should not recognize, I waited for Mr Lobbett himself to show it to me.'

Although the conversation had been comparatively amicable, the atmosphere in the little hut had grown steadily more electric. Outside the breathlessness which comes before a storm had become stifling. A flash of sheet lightning lit up the marshes.

‘Not bad,' said Campion suddenly. ‘But not good either. The situation is becoming clear to me. I am to appear in the gossip columns or do your dirty work for you. I suppose you've been to Pinkertons about me?'

Suddenly he began to laugh. ‘All the same,' he said, ‘even if I do appear in the What Shall We Do With Our Boys? section, I'm not sure that it won't have been worth it. You were with us all through our spot of fun last night. I shall see you to my dying day sitting next to Mrs Knapp. I wouldn't have missed it for anything.'

A slow flush passed over the Oriental's face: the first sign of anger he had betrayed. ‘I considered it best to let you carry out your rather childish little rescue,' he said. ‘I thought it valuable to be in your confidence. I, too, consider it was worth it.'

Campion leaned back a little. ‘On the whole I suppose you're pretty pleased with yourself?' he said. ‘But you're not going to get Our Little Albert on the staff. Now consider your own
position for a bit. Here you are, chucking your weight about in the middle of a marsh, far away from home and mother. Suppose I bang you on the head and go home and say no more about it?'

Mr Barber smiled faintly. ‘I don't think you'll do that,' he said. ‘You must remember I've studied your record pretty closely. I think that a body would be very difficult for a man in your position to explain. Your friends at Scotland Yard would hardly outweigh the record of your curious profession. On the other hand, I am a man of unblemished character, and everyone knows who I am.'

‘Except Our Albert,' said Campion, with a lightning change of tone.

Something in his manner silenced the man opposite him, and the little hut was suddenly uncannily still.