The Fashion In Shrouds (33 page)

‘Had he, by George?' said Mr Campion with interest.

Sinclair nodded.

‘So he said, and I believed him, because he was pretty well sweating when he told me. He said he used to make himself go up now and again, but he couldn't stand it and he used to get the breeze up for days, both before and afterwards.'

‘There are people like that, of course,' put in Amanda, ‘but it doesn't seem possible in Ramillies. Why on earth did he take on this big flight?'

‘I asked him that,' agreed Sinclair, nodding to her, ‘but, as a matter of fact, though, I understood pretty well. It was because of the flight that he told me about the complex. He was so jolly scared that he had to tell someone. I've felt like that about other things. What he actually said was that he'd arranged the whole business because he thought that as flying was the one last thing in the world that he was afraid of he ought to make one great effort to cure himself of it once and for all.' He blushed. ‘That wasn't true, though. Old Ray used to pretend a bit. You know how people do. As a matter of fact, he didn't arrange it. The Government did that. He was asked to make the flight and it would have looked stinkingly bad if he'd refused. He was simply telling me to make it sound all right to himself.'

He sighed for the weaknesses of man and the perversities of circumstance.

‘Your idea is that he died of shock induced by fright, I take it?' inquired Mr Campion with interest.

‘Oh no, I think he took something.' Sinclair was innocent of any attempt at dramatic effect. ‘You see,' he continued awkwardly, ‘he went on talking to me for quite a bit. He explained how frightfully brave he was in everything else except this, and then he said that in a way he was really extra brave over the flight, because he knew someone who could give him a drug to make him perfectly fit and confident throughout the whole thing. It was quite easy, he said. You just took it in your arm and you felt a bit rotten for four hours and then you suddenly felt magnificent and that lasted for about a day. He pointed out what a
temptation it was, and then he said he wasn't going to give in to it and that he'd made up his mind to make the flight without.'

‘I see.' Mr Campion's pale eyes were darker than usual. ‘Did he mention the name of this stuff?'

‘No. He wouldn't tell me. He just said he knew someone who could see he got it if he wanted it. I half thought this person, whoever it was, had found out how scared old Ray was. I think he'd told them. But he didn't want to go on talking about it to me and so, naturally, I didn't mention it.'

‘Four hours feeling rotten and then a day feeling fine?' Amanda repeated the words dubiously. ‘Is there such stuff, Albert?'

‘I've never heard of it. It sounds to me like a tale from someone with an unpleasantly perverted sense of humour.' Mr Campion's precise tone was grim. ‘You think Ray succumbed to the temptation after all, then, Sinclair?'

‘He might have done, mightn't he?' The young voice was very reasonable. ‘When I heard that he'd cleared out in the middle of the farewell party, I thought at once that it was probably because he'd suddenly realized that he couldn't face the flight after all, and had dashed up to Town to get hold of this drug stuff somewhere. That would have been frightfully like him.'

‘There you are.' Amanda was sitting up. ‘There you are. That's it. Sinclair's right. Ramillies left the party in a blue funk, went to Boot's to be quiet and attempt to pull himself together. In the morning he found it was no good and he went round to Miss Adamson, who gave him this stuff. He must have taken it round about noon. Probably he began to feel peculiar almost at once and told that story about being tight in order to cover up any obvious ill-effects. That must be right, because the flight was timed for four. Don't you see, the murderer would have expected him to die in the air. Ramillies thought he was going to feel fine in four hours and instead of that it killed him. Miss Adamson realized what had happened and tried to blackmail the person who had given her the drug for Ramillies. She used you as a threat and got herself killed. It all fits in.'

‘I know, I know, my dear, but there's no proof.' The words escaped Campion reluctantly. ‘I'm sorry to be so unhelpful, but there's no proof that he went near our Caroline
after he left Boot's. Besides – and this is vital – what was it? What was the stuff? There was a P.M., you know, and an analysis.'

‘That's irritatingly true.' Amanda was deflated. ‘I thought we were on to it. It's frightfully good, though, Sinclair. Part of the truth is there. Don't you think so, Albert?'

‘Yes.' Mr Campion still spoke cautiously. ‘Yes, there was no mention of alcohol in the report on the body, and the entire story points to him having been poisoned somewhere in Town. And yet what about that badge in the plane?'

‘The
Quentin Clear
?' Amanda had the grace to look startled. ‘I'd forgotten it. I've still got it, too; A.D.'s never inquired about it. That's odd. You're right. We shall have to consider that. And yet I don't know, though. It was an obvious plant, wasn't it? We decided that at once.'

‘Is that the badge of the Award?' Sinclair was interested. ‘It's frightfully good, isn't it? What did Mr Dell get it for?'

‘The first Seraphim.' In spite of her preoccupation there was tremendous pride in Amanda's statement. ‘It's only given for exceptional pioneer work in aviation design. Look here, Albert, it does fit in. Whoever gave Miss Adamson the stuff to kill Ramillies would naturally be there watching him, and when they saw that the man was going to die in the plane before she went up they planted the
Quentin Clear
there to pin the thing on A.D. How's that?'

‘Not bad, for the one “disinterested intelligence”,' said Campion and grinned as she grew fiery at the dig. ‘I don't know. I don't know, my hearty young betrothed. I don't really like to think.'

He leant back in his chair and sat there, his head jutting forward and his hands in his pockets. For a long time he did not look up.

At four the morning papers were on sale outside in Piccadilly and they all went down to get them. The story had made the wrong side headlines on the front pages, most of which also carried studio portraits of Miss Adamson, looking beautiful and more like Georgia than ever. Much of the published account was unusually accurate and fitted in with the superintendent's own version, but there was one interesting new development. A formal police appeal, boxed and leaded, took the pride of place in every double column.

‘In connexion with the death of Miss Caroline Adamson, late of Petunia House, W 2, whose body was found yesterday morning on a piece of waste ground at Coaching Cross, Essex, the police are anxious to trace the whereabouts of two men, both of medium height and very heavy build, who are thought to be in possession of a small four-cylinder car of some considerable age. These men were observed by a witness near the scene of the discovery at 3 o'clock approx. on the morning of Wednesday, July 21st. Information should be lodged at any police station.'

As they stood in the Circus, with the thin cold wind of dawn drawing its fingers up their spines, they looked up from the papers and stared at each other.

‘Two shortish, very fat men in an old car?' translated Amanda in bewilderment. ‘They don't fit in at all. We're all wrong. It almost looks as though it was nothing to do with our business after all. It's another incredible coincidence, another manifestation of the hand of Providence.'

The words struck an answering note in Lugg's mysterious consciousness. He looked over his paper with that plump, gratified satisfaction at a chance to shine which in the dog world is the peculiarity of the hound.

‘
Providence, 'aving the advantage of knowin' both the strengths and the weaknesses of men, 'as a facility for unostentatious organization undreamed of by our generals. Sterne
,' he said. ‘That come out of my book. What's the matter, cock?'

Mr Campion was staring at him with fascinated excitement.

‘What?' he demanded.

Mr Lugg obligingly repeated this latest fruit of his labours in the fields of culture.

‘Tell you anythink?' he inquired with interest.

Mr Campion put an arm round each of his two younger lieutenants.

‘Yes,' he said, and the old enthusiasm returned in his voice and in the gleam behind his spectacles. ‘Yes, my second-hand scholar, it does. Look here, I'll drive you down to work, Amanda, and I'll phone you in the lunch hour. We can drop Sinclair and his bicycle on the way. And when I come back, Lugg, I'll want a bath, a clean shirt, and you ready for outside work. We start, we stir, we seem to feel the thrill of life beneath our keel.'

Amanda laughed with pure excitement.

‘Seen his tail light?'

‘Not yet,' said Mr Campion, ‘but, the Lord be praised, I've seen his wheels go round.'

SIR MONTAGUE PALING,
the Chief Commissioner, who was a soldier and a gentleman and everything that that phrase implies, phoned his superintendent of the Central Criminal Investigation Department early in the morning.

‘Oates? That you? You still there? Good man. Good man. About this girl-in-the-wood case of yours; is there a foreign element in that?'

‘We don't know yet, sir.' Stanislaus Oates tried to suppress any placatory tone which might have crept into his pleasant country voice. ‘Pullen found a quantity of drugs in her flat last night. We're working on that angle with Wylde at the moment.'

‘Who?'

‘Detective-Inspector Wylde, sir – Narcotics.'

‘Oh yes, of course. I didn't catch you. Oh well, that's very promising. What is it? Cocaine?'

‘No, sir. Morphine. Quite a bit of it. Seven or eight ounces.'

‘Really? She was a distributor, I suppose? Yes, yes, that's satisfactory. I phoned you because I've had a private word from the Colonial Office. The girl was the mistress of one of their fellers who died the other day, and while they don't want to interfere in any way, of course, they do hope we'll be discreet. No need to drag up a lot of mud if it's not necessary. We know that as well as anyone, don't we?'

‘I hope so, sir.'

‘Good man. Good work. Oates. Advise me from time to time. Good-bye.'

The superintendent in charge of the Essex side phoned Superintendent Stanislaus Oates five minutes after the Commissioner had returned to his breakfast.

‘We've taken Robin Whybrow, the lorry-driver, over his statement again, Superintendent, and he's remembered that one man was hatless. He only saw him up against what light there was in the sky, remember, but he says the top of his head was all crinkled, like as if he had curls. I don't know if it's worth noting.'

‘Eh? I dunno. Every crumb means something to an empty spadger. No news of the car?'

‘Not yet, there isn't. We're working on it.'

‘Nor the weapon?'

‘No. I don't think we ever will find that Sorry to disappoint you, but we've combed that place. Still, we're working on it. I'll give you a call the moment anything crops up. I thought I'd let you know we were keeping busy.'

‘Oh yes, fine, thank you very much. Good-bye.'

Oates wrote down, ‘One bloke seen in dark may have curly hair' on his blotting-paper, added an exclamation mark, and drew a ring round it. He glanced absently at the teapot on his desk, his sole sustenance for twenty hours, and, resisting it, took up the telephone again.

Sir Henry Wryothsley was happy to hear from him. The fine precise voice which was so impressive in the box sounded bright and enthusiastic.

‘I'll bring it round myself as soon as it's finished. I've been working all night. A lovely wound. Oh yes, definitely. Obviously sole cause of death. I'm working out the specifications now. I'll read you the opinion. It gives it in one. Are you listening? Don't take it down; I'll bring the report round. Listen. “1.
The cause of death was the wounding of the main blood vessel of the heart and the consequent internal bleeding.
2.
The wound on the wall of the chest, penetrating the main heart-bag, was caused by a sharp-pointed two-edged instrument approximately six-tenths of an inch wide
. 3.” – and this is interesting, Oates – “
the blow was delivered practically straight
”.'

‘What?'

‘I know. The direction is all but dead level. I'll talk to you about it when I see you, but for the present take it from me she was lying peacefully on her back when it was done, and so far I don't see any trace of an anaesthetic or anything else. I'm doing the analysis myself. The only other mark was a slight contusion high up on the left side of the neck, but
it's very faint. What? Oh, I don't know, old boy. I don't know at all. Before midnight and after midday. I daren't be more specific. I'll come round. Good-bye.'

Meanwhile, Georgia was phoning Val.

‘I simply threw myself on his mercy, my dear, and he was charming. He says he'll do all he can and I'm not to worry. He was very sensible and very sweet. Government people so often are. Did you meet him?'

‘I think I did.' The line was bad and Val's high voice sounded very far away.

‘Old, but rather nice. Slightly doggy, with a sprouty moustache. Just like his name. Don't you remember?'

‘I can't hear you.'

‘Oh, it doesn't matter, darling. This line is abominable. I only phoned to tell you I'd fixed everything and it's all going to be hushed up, so we needn't worry any more, thank God. Toddy Towser's going to see to everything. Isn't Toddy a perfectly vile name? Good-bye, sweet.'

Val phoned Mr Campion, and the steady buzzing echoing in the empty flat answered her. As she hung up the receiver the little white instrument in her panelled room at Hampstead rang once more and she pounced on it eagerly, but it was only Rex again.