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1: Afternoon of a Detective

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Author Topic: 1: Afternoon of a Detective  (Read 36 times)
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« on: June 01, 2023, 10:39:48 am »

‘I FOUND a stiff in there once, down at the back just behind the arch,’ said Stanislaus Oates, pausing before the shop-window and peering in apparently to inspect a display of baby clothes. ‘I always recollect it because as I bent down and flashed my bull’s-eye---we had to carry oil lanterns in those days---it suddenly raised its arms and its cold hands closed round my throat. There was no power there, fortunately. He was just on gone and died while I clawed him off. It made me sweat, though. I was a Sergeant Detective, Second Class, then.’

He swung away from the window and swept on down the crowded pavement. His raincoat, which was blackish with flecks of grey in it, billowed out behind him like a schoolmaster’s gown.

His eighteen months as Chief of Scotland Yard had made little outward difference to him. He was still the shabby drooping man, who thickened unexpectedly at the stomach, and his grey sharp-nosed face was still sad and introspective in the shadow of his soft black hat.

‘I always like to walk this bit,’ he went on with gloomy affection. ‘It was the high spot of my manor for nearly thirty years.’

‘And it’s still strewn with the fragrant petals of memory, no doubt?’ commented his companion affably. ‘Whose was the corpse? The shopkeeper’s?’

‘No. Just some poor silly chap trying to crack a crib. Fell through the skylight and broke his back. Must have been there twenty-four hours before I came on him. Someone in Corfu Mansions, round at the back, saw the broken window from above and reported it. That’s longer ago than I care to think. What a lovely afternoon, Campion. Enjoying it?’

The man at his side did not reply. He was extricating himself from a passer-by who had accidentally cannoned into him on catching a sudden glimpse of the old Chief. The stranger, an entirely respectable-looking elderly man in a hard hat, had come face to face with Oates and had reacted so violently that his involuntary swerve all but upset the younger man. It was the fourth incident of its kind in a walk of a quarter of a mile and Campion was mildly surprised. But a stroll with Oates through the district which had once been so peculiarly his own was an enlightening experience altogether.

The main stream of bustling shoppers ignored the old detective, but to a minority he was still one of those celebrities at whom one does not turn to stare. His progress was like the serene sailing of a big river-fish from whose path experienced small fry consider it prudent to scatter.

Even the smiles of friends were hardly the open grins of welcome. There was an element of the demure smirk of the confederate in the salutation of traders and men on the beat.

The old man himself appeared to see no one at all, but wandered on, absorbed by his friend, his memories and the sunlight.

Mr. Albert Campion himself was not unknown to some of the interested glances but his field was smaller and considerably more exclusive. He was a tall man in the forties, over-thin, with hair once fair and now bleached almost white. His clothes were good enough to be unnoticeable and behind unusually large horn-rimmed spectacles his face, despite its maturity, still possessed much of that odd quality of anonymity which had been so remarked upon in his youth. He had the valuable gift of appearing an elegant shadow and was, as a great policeman had once said so enviously, a man of whom at first sight no one could ever be afraid.

At the moment he shared something in common with many of the men who jostled him. After nearly eight years he was again his own master and was finding his freedom a thought unnerving, like a man out of prison or a boy out of school. The great carpet of his half-finished private life hung on a shadowy loom before him, the threads tangled and dusty, the pattern but half remembered, and the task just a little, if guiltily, wearisome to contemplate.

He had accepted the Chief’s unprecedented invitation to lunch with reservations and the equally unlikely proposal that they should go and walk in the park with a stiffening of his determination not to be drawn into anything. There were urgent private problems to be resolved and the old hobbies of his pre-war life seemed far away.

Oates, who usually walked fast and spoke little, was dawdling and presently came to an abrupt halt outside the mock-Moorish façade of a furtive tavern which huddled its pottery pillars between two large gown shops.

‘The old Black Horse,’ he said with false astonishment. ‘Now there is a pub! I’ve had some sessions there in my time. We took Bowson and James there. The last of the master-crooks we thought they were. Bowson had the Lauderdale pearls actually on him when we got him one night just before closing time. He had ’em in a bottle of medicine for his sick stomach. Cloudy stuff it was with a sediment halfway up the glass. He thought he was so safe he brought it out of the old plaid cloak he wore and put it on the bar in front of me. Frank and I arrested those two on our own and it was a real feather in our caps. You don’t remember Frank Fyson, do you? He was D.D.I. at the time and I was Chief Inspector lent by the Yard. He was a wonderfully good old bloke, one of the very best. I cried like a child at his funeral.’

His cold eyes, which were the colour of a German field uniform, flickered upward on the words, but Mr. Campion, following their gaze, saw that it rested on the clock over the jeweller’s two doors down. It was just five minutes past three. Oates sniffed with satisfaction.

‘Let’s have a look at the flowers,’ he said and set off across the road. It was a fine dry autumn that year after a wet summer and the rough grass under the trees was at least still extant. The leaves were turning and the long lazy shadows under them were cool and pleasant after the clatter of the streets. The two men walked in silence for a time, the Chief leading the way despite a certain assumption of casualness.

When he did speak it was still on the only theme which had ever really interested him.

‘I fancy it was that tree,’ he remarked presently, pointing out a lonely oak. ‘They’ve had a branch off there, see? A long way up. An old saddle-maker from Camden Town hanged himself on it very early one morning in the mist. At least we assumed he did it. His business was bust. But he was close on seventy and we never quite figured out how he got up there.’

Mr. Campion appeared suitably impressed but a faint smile flickered across his wide mouth. He was tickled by this display of a somewhat specialized line in social conversation and was on the point of saying so gently, but at that moment it became apparent that Oakes had seen his goal. It proved to be a nest of small green chairs arranged cosily at the foot of a giant beech which made a tent of shadow over them. He crossed towards them and sat down, wrapping the tails of his coat over his knees like a skirt.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘You can see the flowers. What are they? Gladioli or something?’

Since the only blossoms in sight were some sixty yards distant and separated from them by a path, several clumps of shrubs, and one of those tidy log-cabins where park-keepers hide brooms, Mr. Campion felt himself in no position to offer an opinion. He sat silent, looking at the scene, which was as formal and timeless as an early French water-colour, with grudging curiosity.

They were practically alone in the gentle oasis whose horizon was the pale haze of a city which stretched out around them in a hundred square miles of brick wilderness. The only other living creature in sight at the moment was a woman who sat on one of the public benches which flanked the gravel path. The full sunlight poured down on her bent back and on the square of folded newspaper in which she was so engrossed.

She was just within normal vision and Campion put her down as one of those tramps which all great cities collect among their ragged draperies. Her small squat form was arrayed in an assortment of garments of varying length, and as she sat with her knees crossed she revealed a swag of multi-coloured hems festooned across a concertina’d stocking. At that distance her shoe appeared to be stuffed with grass. Wisps of it sprouted from every aperture, including one at the toe. It was warm in the sun but she wore across her shoulders something which might once have been a fur, and although her face was hidden Campion could see elf-locks peeping out from under the yellowing folds of an ancient motoring veil of the button-on-top variety. Since she wore it over a roughly torn square of cardboard placed flat on her head the effect was eccentric and even pathetic, in the way that little girls in fancy dress are sometimes so. Campion glanced at Oates to find him watching her thoughtfully, but as soon as he saw he was observed his glance wandered away down the yellow path which wound past the woman and off out of sight round a little knoll. They did not speak. It was cool and pleasant under the tree and a light breeze shuffled the leaves on a dusty patch at their feet where the grass would not grow.

The second woman appeared on the path suddenly, as figures do in the bright sunlight. Her white coat embraced the light until it was dazzling. Her small steps gave her top-heavy figure a curious teetering motion, and the little yellow spaniel on the green lead, who trotted at her side, looked like a mechanical toy.

Mr. Campion, who had nothing else he wished to think about at the moment, reflected lazily that it was gratifying to see how often Nature employs the designs of eminent artists and was happy to recognize a Helen Hopkinson. She was perfect, the little feet, the enormous bust, the tall white hat, half wine-glass, half posy, and above all the ineffable indication of demure ingenuousness in every curving line. He became aware of the Chief stiffening at his side at the instant in which the shining figure paused. The coat, which some ingenious tailor had evolved to give a torso like a jelly-bag the inoffensive contours of a jug, hesitated as it were in mid-air. The white hat turned briefly this way and that. The small feet fluttered to the side of the woman on the seat. A tiny glove moved forth and back, and then she was in mid-path again, walking on with the same self-conscious if unsteady innocence.

‘Ha,’ said Oates softly as she passed them, and they saw her face was pink and virtuous. ‘See that, Campion?’

‘Yes. What did she give her?’

‘Sixpence. Possibly ninepence. It has been a shilling.’

Mr. Campion looked at his friend, who was not by nature flippant.

‘A purely charitable act?’

‘Utterly.’

‘I see.’ Campion was the most polite of men. ‘I know it’s rare,’ he said meekly.

‘She does it nearly every day, somewhere about this time,’ the Chief explained unsatisfactorily. ‘I wanted to see it with my own eyes. Oh, there you are, Super . . .’

Heavy steps on the grass behind them came closer and Superintendent Yeo, most just if most policeman-like of policemen, came round the tree to shake hands.

Mr. Campion welcomed him sincerely. The two were very old friends and had that deep liking for each other which springs up so often between opposite temperaments.

At the moment the senior member of the Big Five was in loose tweeds, a traditional costume Mr. Campion never remembered having seen before on that square and solid form, while the soft green hat on the back of his round head was as unlikely on him as a false moustache. As he took the third chair, arranging it carefully so that it had its back to the tramp on the seat, Campion’s pale eyes became speculative. Of one thing he was now certain. If Oates had taken it into his grey head to play the goat, Yeo was not the man to waste an afternoon to humour him.

‘Well,’ Yeo said with glee, ‘you saw it.’

‘Yes.’ The Chief was thoughtful. ‘Funny thing human greed. The exhumation must be reported in that paper if it’s at all recent, but she’s not reading it unless she’s learning it by heart. She hasn’t turned it over while we’ve been here.’

Campion’s lean chin shot up for a moment and then he bent again over the piece of stick with which he was doodling in the dust.

‘Palinode case?’

Yeo’s round brown eyes flickered at his Chief.

‘You’ve been making it interesting for him, I see,’ he said with disapproval. ‘Yes, that’s Miss Jessica Palinode sitting over there, Mr Campion. She is the third sister and she sits on that particular seat every afternoon, rain or shine. To look at she’s what we used to call a “daisy”. Quite a little picture in her own way. When she can get ’em she puts banana-skins in her shoes instead of grass. Keeps the heat of the pavements off her feet, that’s the theory.’

‘And who was the other woman?’ Campion was still intent on his hieroglyphics.

‘That was Mrs. Dawn Bonnington of Carchester Terrace,’ Oates intervened. ‘Her husband drives himself about in a Rolls sports because he can’t get a chauffeur in these hard times. She knows it’s “wrong to give to beggars” but when she sees “a woman who has had to let herself go” she just can’t resist “doing something”. It’s a form of superstition, of course. Some people touch wood.’

‘Oh give it to him straight,’ grumbled Yeo. ‘There’s quite enough mystery without making any more. Mrs B. walks her dog alone here on fine afternoons, Mr. Campion, and seeing Miss Jessica always sitting there she formed the opinion, not unnaturally, that the poor old girl was down and out. So she made a habit of slipping her something and she was never snubbed. One of our chaps on duty observed the incident was pretty regular and one day walked over to warn the old thing against begging. As he came up to her he saw what she was doing and he admits quite frankly that it put him off.’

‘What was that?’

‘A crossword puzzle in Latin.’ The Superintendent spoke placidly. ‘They run one in a highbrow weekly alongside a couple of others in English, one for adults and one for children. The officer, who is highbrow himself, bless his heart, does the one for kids, and he recognized the page as he approached. It shook him to see her slapping the words in and he walked past her.’

‘Ah, but next day when she was only reading a book he did his stuff,’ put in Oates, who sounded happy, ‘and Miss Palinode gave him a fine comprehensive lecture on the ethics of true politeness, and half-a-crown.’

‘He doesn’t admit the half-crown.’ Yeo’s small mouth was prim but amused. ‘However, he had the sense to find out her name and where she lived and he had a quiet word with Mrs. Bonnington. She didn’t believe him---she’s that kind of woman---and ever after she’s had to do her little act when she’s thought no one was looking. The interesting thing is that he swears that Miss Palinode likes the money. He says she waits for it and goes off livid if Mrs. Bonnington doesn’t come. Well, does it attract you, Mr. Campion?’

The third man straightened his back and smiled half in apology, half in regret.

‘Frankly, no,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s a fascinating case,’ Oates said, ignoring him. ‘It’s going to be one of the classics of its kind. They’re such difficult interesting people. You know who they are, don’t you? When I was a boy even I heard of Professor Palinode, who wrote the essays, and his wife the poetess, and I didn’t go to a very high-class school. These are the children. They’re queer brainy people, not all of them cranks by any means, and here they are, all boarding privately in what was once their own home. They’re not easy people to get at from a police point of view, and now there’s a prisoner loose among ’em. I thought it was right down your street.’

‘My street has developed a bend,’ Campion murmured apologetically. ‘I’m flattered, though. Touched, even. Where are your young men?’

Yeo coughed and Oates did not look at him.

‘Well, young Charlie Luke is the D.D.I. in charge,’ he explained. ‘He’s old Bill Luke’s youngest. You’ll remember Inspector Luke. He and the Super here were mates in the Y Division in the great old days. Now, as you know, we ought to send a chief inspector from H.Q. to help the young ’un. If we do, it will have to be the Holly.’

He paused and Mr. Campion saw their difficulty at once. Chief Detective Inspector Holly was a fine officer but was not prodigal in sharing honour.

‘Mr. Campion, if young Charlie is what I think he is,’ burst out Yeo with uncharacteristic abandon, ‘he’s poor old Bill over again plus his mother’s brains, and I don’t see why he shouldn’t pull it off alone---if he has help.’ He looked at the younger man hopefully.

‘We’ll give you all the dope anyway,’ continued Oates. ‘It’s worth hearing. The whole street seems to be in it, that’s such a funny thing.’

‘I do apologize, but you know, I fancy I’ve heard most of it.’ The man in the horn-rimmed spectacles considered them unhappily. ‘The woman who keeps, and I think owns, the house they all live in is an old variety artiste called Renee Roper. She’s an acquaintance of mine. In fact she once did me a very good turn a long time ago when I was having fun and games with some ballet stars. She came to see me this morning.’

‘Did she ask you to act for her?’ They spoke together and he laughed.

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Renee’s not your bird. She’s just upset at having a murder or two---is it two yet, Oates?---on her nice respectable hands. She invited me to be her star boarder and tidy it all up for her. I felt a lout having to turn her down and as it was I listened to the whole harrowing story.’

‘Well!’ The Superintendent was sitting up like a bear, his round eyes serious. ‘I’m not a religious man,’ he said, ‘but do you know what I’d call that? I’d call it an omen. It’s a coincidence, Mr. Campion, you can’t ignore it. It’s intended.’

The thin man rose and stood looking out across the sunlit grass to the bundle on the seat and to the flowers beyond her.

‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘No, two crows don’t make a summons, Super. According to the adage one needs three for that. I’ve got to go, by the way, unless your watch is wrong.’

Yeo plunged his fingers into his pocket and brought out a presentation half-hunter with relief.

‘I thought you’d got it,’ he said, grinning. ‘Do you remember how he used to lift ’em for a lark, Mr. Oates? Shocked me properly first time I saw it. Now where’s he gone?’

The Chief said nothing for a while, and then, as he took out his pipe from his pocket and tapped it on his heel, he made a pronouncement.

‘I’ll bet he doesn’t know either,’ he said.

But he was wrong.
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