Flowers For the Judge (20 page)

‘Somebody must have done it,’ she said. ‘Who was it? I’ve gone over it again and again so often that I sometimes think I shall go mad and imagine I did it myself. It was
someone
clever enough to think of arranging an accident, someone who had no idea how clever the police are. Albert, it wasn’t Mike, was it?’

‘No,’ said Mr Campion quietly but with complete conviction. ‘It wasn’t Mike.’

She laughed unsteadily.

‘When you’re alone thinking, you believe anything.’

Her voice died on the last word and she turned round. The door clattered open and Ritchie returned. Because of his excitement he was clumsier than ever and he lurched across the room dangerously.

‘Any good?’ he inquired, dropping something into Mr Campion’s lap.

Mr Campion turned over the battered cardboard-backed book in some astonishment.

‘Post Office Savings Bank?’ he said. ‘Whose is it?’

‘Girl Netley’s.’ Ritchie seemed tremendously pleased with himself. ‘Might be interesting. Never know. Often thought it funny she brought it to the office. Keep bankbooks at home, not lying about.’

‘Where did you get it from?’ Mr Campion turned over the pages carefully.

‘Out of her bag,’ said Ritchie without hesitation or attempt at mitigation. ‘Can’t be conventional at a time like this.’

Mr Campion made no comment. Something in the book had attracted his attention and he sat for some considerable time turning over the pages and comparing entries.

‘Thrifty kid,’ he said at last. ‘She saves ten bob a week regularly, every Saturday. There it is. It goes back nearly a year. Handed in at the same office just down the road here in Holborn. There were several sums paid in at Christmas – that’s presents, I suppose – and she took out three pounds then, too. I’m afraid it doesn’t tell us much about her, unless – hello ! what’s this?’

Gina rose to look over his shoulder while Ritchie leant back in his chair, his long hands dropping over the arms and his eyes mild and inquisitive like a dog who has brought a parcel and is content to see his master open it.

Mr Campion ran a finger down a paying-in column and traced certain entries across the page to the circular stamp which showed at which office the deposits had been made.

‘These can’t all be birthdays,’ he said. ‘They’re funny amounts, too; so irregular. A pound on October the twenty-second last year, paid in at St. James’s of all places. Ten shillings in the middle of the first week in November at the same place. Then there’s just the ordinary ten shillings until December the first, when she paid two pounds in at the St Martin’s Lane office. Then nothing odd until January, and then there’s quite a lot. Three pounds on the tenth, another three pounds on the thirteenth, two pounds on the seventeenth, then three again on the twentieth and – I say – five pounds on the twenty-ninth. That was the day after Paul disappeared. I wonder …’

He turned over the pages and his frown deepened.

‘And there’s nothing since. That’s odd in a way.’

‘Source of blackmail dead,’ suggested Ritchie crudely.

Mr Campion did not scout the suggestion openly.

‘It’s not very much for blackmail,’ he murmured. ‘Eighteen pounds odd all told. It’s the paying-in places that strike me as being odd. They’re all over the shop. Only the first two alike. Of course, we’re catching at straws now, you know. This doesn’t prove anything. It may mean absolutely nothing. Still, it’s worth looking up.’

He closed the book and slipped it into his pocket.

‘I think I’ll go across and have a word with her.’

‘Say I took it if you have to,’ said Ritchie recklessly.

‘God forbid,’ Mr Campion spoke piously and left them.

In spite of the fact that he had become a familiar figure at Twenty-three during the last few months, custom insisted that he should be shown into the waiting-room and there left to kick his heels until the person whom he sought should be discovered and delivered to him.

He was standing with his back to the door, surveying the portrait of Jacoby Barnabas afresh, when Miss Netley came in. She went to meet him, a smile upon her lips and the same smug secretiveness in her eyes which he had noticed at their first meeting.

‘Here again, Mr Campion?’ she said pleasantly but with the faintest suggestion of amusement in her tone. ‘I thought perhaps you’d brought us a manuscript!’

Mr Campion’s smile was wholly charming.

‘That’s what I call intuition,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’

He had the satisfaction of seeing her complaisance vanish as she caught sight of the little brown book in his hand. Her round eyes lost their ingenuous expression and her colour vanished.

‘It’s mine,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it? Thank you for returning it.’

‘Ah, but I’m not returning it,’ murmured Mr Campion, and she gaped at him.

‘I’ve never heard such impudence in all my life,’ she burst out finally. ‘How dare you! Where
did
you get it anyway?’

‘Took it,’ said Mr Campion and put the book back in his pocket.

Miss Netley trembled. ‘It’s outrageous!’ she said unsteadily. ‘It’s illegal – its’ stealing!’

‘Of course it is,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s go and tell Inspector Tanner all about it, shall we? He’s a policeman.’

She drew back from him, her lips sulky, her eyes narrowed and frightened.

‘What do you want to know? I can’t tell you anything.’

Mr Campion sighed with relief. They taught them to be quick-witted in offices, he reflected.

‘I thought we might have a chat,’ he said.

‘I’ve told the police everything – absolutely everything.’

‘About the murder? Yes, of course you have,’ he said, wondering how long they were going to be left alone in peace in the waiting-room. ‘Let’s talk about yourself.’

Her suspicion increased.

‘I don’t understand.’

Mr Campion leant on the large table which filled the centre of the room. His expression was vague to the point of idiocy and his eyes looked guileless behind his spectacles.

‘I hate to sound inquisitive, and my question may sound a little in bad taste,’ he began, ‘but however much one’s upset by a death one has to face facts, hasn’t one? I do
hope
you won’t think it impertinent of me to ask if your financial position has been very much upset by Mr Paul Brande’s death? It is frightfully inquisitive, I know, but I would be really obliged if you’d tell me.’

She looked relieved and he saw at once that he was on a wrong tack.

‘Well, I haven’t lost my job, if that’s what you mean,’ she said. ‘What other difference could it make?’

‘None, of course. If you’re staying on that’s all right.’ Mr Campion covered his tracks but her interest had been aroused.

‘Just exactly what are you getting at?’ she demanded.

He took the bank-book out of his pocket, looked at it thoughtfully, and replaced it again.

‘You told the police exactly what happened when Mr Paul Brande got a letter by the afternoon post on the Thursday that he disappeared. You haven’t remembered anything else since, have you?’

‘I’ve told it all, every single word, over and over again.’

There was an edge to her voice which warned him to be careful. He smiled at her brightly.

‘You’ve got awfully strong nerves, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Let’s go into his old office and – just go through it. Please don’t think I’m being a nuisance, but I would like to know just exactly what happened. It’ll fix the picture in my mind, you see.’

Miss Netley looked at him witheringly, but the retort which rose to her lips did not come, and without a word she led him up to the first floor and into the big comfortable room, a little too preciously furnished for an office, in which Paul had worked.

Mr Campion sat down at the desk after placing his hat and stick carefully on a side table.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘where were you when the letter came?’

Still sullen, and looking her contempt, Miss Netley seated herself at the typewriter in the corner.

‘Now,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I suppose the boy brought the letter in, gave it to you and you handed it to Mr Brande?’

She bowed her head. It was evident that she did not trust
herself
to speak. Mr Campion tore open an imaginary envelope, exhibiting much pantomimic skill.

‘Now,’ he demanded briskly, ‘what do I do now?’

‘Mr Paul got up,’ said Miss Netley, indicating that she was not going to play, ‘scrunched up the paper and envelope and threw them into the fireplace.’

‘Like that?’ said Mr Campion, hurling an imaginary ball from him violently.

‘No,’ she said unwillingly. ‘Just casually.’

‘And it burned?’ he inquired, his eyes resting on her quizzically.

‘It did.’

‘All of it? Every scrap of it?’

‘Every tiny bit.’

‘You looked to see?’

She met his eyes defiantly. ‘After he had gone, yes, I did.’

‘We’re getting on,’ said Mr Campion cheerfully. ‘Now I get up, don’t I? And I seem excited? What happens? Do I get red and seem a little flustered? Do I take up my hat and stick and make for the door without a word or a glance in your direction? Or do I say something?’

The girl hesitated. She seemed to be considering her course of action.

‘No,’ she said at last, grudgingly. ‘Mr Paul asked me if a parcel had come.’

‘Oh, did he? What did he say? Can you remember his actual words?’

‘He said’ – she still spoke unwillingly – ‘“Has that parcel come from Fortnum and Mason’s yet?”’

‘Fortnum and Mason’s? And what did you say?’

‘I said, “No, Mr Brande, I don’t think it has.” And he said, “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” and went out without it. And now I hope you’re satisfied.’

‘Well, it’s a crumb,’ said Mr Campion. ‘It’s a crumb. Ten bob here, a pound there. Two pounds and five pounds – it all tells up, doesn’t it?’

He stopped abruptly. If he had meant to terrify her he could not have been more successful. She was staring at him, her eyes wide and her lips open.

‘What do you know?’ she said huskily.

‘Much more than you’d think,’ Mr Campion spoke cryptically and he hoped convincingly. ‘Let’s get back to Mr Paul. You said the parcel hadn’t come and then what happened?’

‘I told you. He said it didn’t matter. “It does not matter,” he said. “I will go without it.” Then he went out and shut the door and I never saw him again.’

‘Splendid !’ said Mr Campion. ‘You’re not a good witness, you know, but it makes a lot of difference when you try.

‘Now what happened to the parcel? Did it ever come?’

‘Yes. It came about an hour after he left. I put it in that cupboard over there.’

‘Is it still there?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t looked.’

‘Then shall we look now?’ he suggested.

She got up, sauntered across the room and jerked open the cupboard.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There it is.’

‘Bring it here,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I wouldn’t have you for a secretary as a gift.’

Miss Netley reddened and opened her mouth to speak. A single unprintable epithet left her lips and then, as he looked completely shocked, she strode over to her typewriter and burst into tears.

Campion examined the parcel. There seemed to be nothing in any way extraordinary about it and he loosened the string. Inside was a square box, tastefully ornamented and containing two pounds of crystallized Cape gooseberries.

He sat looking at them in their green and pink sugar jackets, his head slightly on one side and his eyes puzzled.

‘Who was the lady?’ he inquired at last.

Miss Netley wiped her eyes.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Of course you do. Ten bob – two pounds –’

She laughed. ‘You’re wrong. I knew you were wrong.’

Her watery-eyed triumph was vindictive.

‘Well, I know now,’ said Mr Campion mercilessly. ‘Come on, I want the address.’

‘I don’t know it.’

He had the uncomfortable impression that she was telling the truth.

‘Look here, young woman,’ he said severely, ‘an accident of nature has given you a certain amount of intelligence. Believe me when I tell you that now is the time to use it. Think! Pull your scattered little wits together. Get it into your head that now is the time to talk.’

This sudden ferocity from the hitherto mild young man had the desired effect.

‘There was a telephone number he used to ring up sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘He used to send me out of the room and then just as I was going I would hear him give the number.’

‘Well, then, out with it for the love of Mike,’ said Mr Campion using the expression unconsciously.

‘Maida Vale 58423. Now I can’t tell you any more. I can’t – can’t! I don’t know any more.’

‘Maida Vale 58423,’ said Mr Campion, scribbling the number on the blotter in front of him. ‘All right. You clear off now and get your face washed.’

‘What about my book? You can’t keep my book.’

‘I should trust me with it for a day or two,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I might put something in it. You never know.’

A stifled scream escaped the girl. He had a vision of her, white and trembling, and then the door banged behind her. Enlightenment dawned in Mr Campion’s pale eyes.

‘So that’s how he did it,’ he said and pulled the telephone towards him.

He heard the bell ringing in the far-off room for some time before a voice answered him.

‘Yes? Maida Vale 58423. Who is it, please?’

Mr Campion was puzzled. It was a woman’s voice and it was familiar, but he could not place it. Completely in the dark, he proceeded cautiously.

‘I say, I’m afraid you’ll think it frightfully odd of me ringing up like this,’ he began. ‘I wonder if it would be too much to ask you if I could come along and see you? It
really
is important and I wouldn’t take up more than ten minutes of your time?’

‘Do you know the address?’ whispered the voice. ‘It’s Thirty-two Dorothy Studios, Denbigh Road, Kilburn. You open the garden gate and come down the steps.’

‘Splendid. I’ll be right along,’ he said, completely startled. ‘My name’s Campion, by the way.’

‘Yes, I know, I’ve been expecting you. My name’s Teddie Dell.’

Mr Campion hung up the receiver slowly.