‘Could I have yer name, please, sir?’
Very puzzled, Marlowe Lobbett gave his name. The voice became more deferential than before. ‘Listen carefully, sir,’ it said in a rumbling whisper. ‘You want Bottle Street Police Station. You know where that is, don’t you?—off Piccadilly. It’s the side door on the left. Right up the stairs. You’ll see the name up when you come to it. No. No connection with the police station—just a flat on top. Pleased to see you right away. Goo’-bye, sir.’
There was a second click and he was cut off.
The girl seated on the edge of the table by the instrument looked at her brother eagerly. She was dark, but whereas he was tall and heavily built, with the shoulders of a prize-fighter, she was petite, finely and slenderly fashioned.
‘Did you get him?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I’m scared, Marlowe. More scared than I was at home.’
The boy put his arm round her. ‘It’s going to be all right, kid,’ he said. ‘The old man’s obstinacy doesn’t make it any easier for us to look after him. I was rather hopeful about this Campion fellow, but now I don’t know what to think. I’ll see if I can find him, anyhow.’
The girl clung to him. ‘Be careful. You don’t know anyone here. It might be a trap to get you.’
The boy shook his head. ‘I fancy not,’ he said.
She was still not reassured. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Marlowe shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘It may be a wild-goose chase. Stay here and look after Father. Don’t let him go out till I come back.’
Isopel Lobbett nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But hurry.’
The taxi route from the Strand to Piccadilly is not a long one, and Marlowe found himself outside the police station in the narrow cul-de-sac sooner than he had anticipated. The ‘door on the left’, he decided, must be the yellow portal which stood open showing a flight of wooden stairs, scrubbed white, leading up into darkness. After the first flight of steps he came upon a carpet, at the third there were pictures on the wall, and he began to have the uncomfortable impression that he had stumbled into some private house, when he suddenly came to a stop before an attractively carved oak door upon which there was a small brass plate, neatly engraved with the simple lettering:
MR ALBERT CAMPION, MERCHANT
GOODS DEPT
When he saw it he realized with a shock how forlorn he had expected his errand to be. He tapped upon the door with more vigour than he had intended.
It was opened immediately by the young man in the horn-rimmed spectacles himself. He was attired in what appeared to be a bathrobe, a stupendous affair of multi-coloured Turkish towelling.
‘Hallo!’ he said. ‘Seeing London? I come next in importance after the Tower, I always think. Come in.’ He dragged his visitor into a room across the tiny passage and thrust him into a deep comfortable armchair by the fire. As he mixed him a drink he rambled on inconsequentially without allowing the other to get a word in.
‘I have to live over a police station because of my friends. It’s a great protection against my more doubtful acquaintances.’
In spite of his agitation and the importance of his errand, Marlowe could not help noticing the extraordinary character of the room in which he sat. It was tastefully, even luxuriously, furnished. There were one or two delightful old pieces, a Rembrandt etching over the bureau, a Steinlen cat, a couple of original cartoons, and a lovely little Girtin.
But amongst these were scattered a most remarkable collection of trophies. One little group over the mantelpiece comprised two jemmies, crossed, surmounted by a pair of handcuffs, with a convict’s cap over the top. Lying upon a side table, apparently used as a paper knife, was a beautiful Italian dagger, the blade of which was of a curious greenish-blue shade, and the hilt encrusted with old and uncut gems.
Campion picked it up. ‘That’s the Black Dudley dagger,’ he said. ‘An old boy I met was stuck in the back with that, and everyone thought I’d done the sticking. Not such fun. I suppose you’ve seen most of the sights of London by now,’ he went on. ‘There’s my Great-aunt Emily. I’ve often thought of running a good cheap char-à-bancs tour round her.’
Marlowe Lobbett did not smile. ‘You’ll forgive me,’ he said, ‘but can’t we drop this fooling? I’ve come to you as a last chance, Mr Campion.’
The boy’s gravity was sobering, but his irrepressible host, after a momentary expression of contrition had passed over his face, began once more. ‘Rather—anything I can do for you,’ he said affably. ‘I undertake almost anything these days. But nothing sordid. I will not sell that tinted photograph of myself as Lord Fauntleroy. No. Not all your gold shall tempt me. I am leaving that to the Nation. Patriotism, and all that sort of rot,’ he chattered on, proffering a particularly dangerous-looking cocktail. ‘All my own work. It contains almost everything except tea. Now, young sir, what can I do for you?’
Marlowe accepted the drink. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘do you always talk like this?’
Mr Campion looked abashed. ‘Almost always,’ he said. ‘People get used to it in time. I can’t help it, it’s a sort of affliction, like stammering or a hammer toe. My friends pretend they don’t notice it. What did the police say to you this morning?’
The last question was put so abruptly that Marlowe Lobbett had not time to conceal his surprise. ‘What do you know about it?’ he demanded. ‘How do you know that I visited your police headquarters this morning?’
Mr Campion advanced with great solemnity and gingerly removed a tiny piece of fluff from his visitor’s overcoat with his thumb and forefinger. ‘A police hair, my dear Watson,’ he said. ‘I noticed it as soon as you came in. Since then my brain has been working. I suppose they funked it?’ he went on with sudden directness.
Marlowe glanced up. ‘They wouldn’t guarantee his safety,’ he said.
Mr Campion shook his head. ‘I don’t altogether blame them,’ he said soberly. ‘Your own police in New York weren’t handing out any insurance certificates, were they?’
‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘That is the main reason why I got the old boy over here. Our Big Noise over there told me that in his opinion they were playing cat-and-mouse with father and that they’d get him just whenever they pleased. You see,’ he burst out impatiently, ‘it’s mostly the old boy’s fault. He won’t stand for any reasonable restraint. He won’t let the police look after him in their way. You see, he’s never been afraid of—’ He hesitated, and added the word ‘them’ with a peculiar intonation. ‘And he’s not going to begin now. He’s not crazy. He just feels that way about it. You see what I’m up against.’
‘Not quite,’ said Mr Campion thoughtfully. ‘How come, boy? How come?’
Marlowe stared at him in astonishment. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand you at all, Mr Campion. When you saved my father on the Elephantine surely you had some idea of what was up?’
‘Well, naturally,’ said the owner of the flat airily, ‘but not very much. I met an old burgling friend of mine on board and he pointed out a fellow graduate of his, as it were, who had suddenly got
