Mystery Mile. Margery Allingham
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 very pally with old Hanky Panky the Magician. Like all professional men, we took an intelligent interest in the fellow’s technique, and, well, I just borrowed friend Haig in case of emergencies. Do you know,’ he rattled on, ‘I believe that mouse was fond of me? I am glad it was a sudden death. By the way,’ he continued, ‘may I ask, was it because of my stupendous platform appearance that you came to me today?’
Marlowe Lobbett hesitated. ‘Not altogether,’ he admitted. ‘In fact, when I was talking to Chief Inspector Deadwood at Scotland Yard this morning and I found that they couldn’t promise to protect the old boy without a regular police guard, which father would never stand, I appealed to him as a man to tell me of someone to whom I could go.’
Mr Campion chuckled. ‘Good for him,’ he said. ‘Behold Albert Campion, C.I.D.—i.e. Cell in Dartmoor,’ he explained regretfully. ‘But it hasn’t come to that yet. You know of course who “they” are?’ he said suddenly.
Marlowe Lobbett was becoming used to these lightning changes of mood. He nodded, his shrewd dark eyes fixed upon the spectacles which hid Mr Campion’s seriousness from him. ‘Simister.’ He spoke the word so softly that it sounded like a whisper. Mr Campion was silent for some moments, and Marlowe Lobbett suddenly leaned forward in his chair.
‘Mr Campion,’ he said, ‘can you tell me about this man Simister? What is he? A gangster? A master crook? Is he a single personality at all? In New York they say his records go back for over a hundred years, and that no such person exists. According to them a powerful gang is using the word as a sort of trade name. Tell me,’ he went on. ‘Does he exist?’
A laugh escaped Mr Campion. ‘My dear man,’ he said, ‘somewhere on this earth there is a man called Simister. He may be a devil—a bogle—anything you like, but he’s as real a power of evil as dope is. I’m not saying this to chill your youthful ardour,’ he went on, ‘but it’s most dangerous to underrate an enemy. This is all I know about him. I’ve talked to crooks and I’ve talked to policemen—I’ve even talked to members of his own gang—but I’ve never met anyone yet who has set eyes on him. Apparently he’s a voice on the telephone, a shadow on the road, the gloved hand that turns out the light in the crook play; but with one big difference—he’s never caught. There are thousands of amazing yarns told about him, and in not one of them does a hint of his face ever appear. They say no one ever escapes him.’
Marlowe moved uneasily in his chair. ‘I’ve heard that,’ he said, ‘and that’s why I’ve come to you—as a last chance, if you’ll forgive me saying so. Can you do anything for me?’
Mr Campion eyed him owlishly, but he did not give a direct reply. ‘There’s one thing I don’t get,’ he said. ‘Why your father?’
Marlowe Lobbett rose to his feet and walked up and down the room. ‘That’s what gets me,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing I can help. It’s nothing money can undo. It’s a sort of revenge.’
Campion nodded. ‘I see,’ he said gravely. ‘Anything else?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Marlowe spoke helplessly. ‘You see,’ he went on with sudden confidence. ‘I’ve found all this out with difficulty. It goes back a long time. When I was a kid of course I hadn’t much idea of what father was up to. I’ve only recently dug out the truth from him, and he won’t admit much, even to me. Apparently the old boy has been fighting the Simister Gang all his life. He was the only weapon the police really had. When they got a gangster dad gave it to him hot. He wasn’t unjust, you understand, he was just hard where they were concerned. But he couldn’t make any real impression on them. Quite suddenly—it was after the Steinway trial (he wasn’t trying that, you know, he was just advising; that was after he had retired)—they went for him. We’ve lived in terror for him for over six months,’ he finished quietly.
‘Not a Mothers’ Union Outing,’ said Mr Campion appreciatively, and added more gravely, ‘Is that all?’
Marlowe Lobbett hesitated. ‘Well, the rest is only conjecture,’ he said.
‘Let’s have it,’ said Mr Campion.
Marlowe sat down again and lit a cigarette, which he did not smoke.
‘Well, you must understand,’