Mystery Mile. Margery Allingham

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СКАЧАТЬ 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,’ he began hesitatingly, ‘my father has said nothing to me to give me this idea. I don’t know anything for certain, but from several things that have happened lately I believe that he’s got something pretty definite on the Simister Gang. You see,’ he went on abruptly, ‘ “advisory work” is such a vague term. I can’t help feeling that it may mean that he’s been devoting himself to investigations about these Simister people. He probably wouldn’t admit it for fear of scaring us. I believe the old boy tumbled on something. I’ve been trying to figure out what it could be, and it’s occurred to me that he might have stumbled on some clue as to the actual identity of this Simister fellow himself.’

      Mr Campion took off his spectacles and his pale eyes regarded his visitor in frank astonishment. ‘I hope for your sake that what you think is not true. If, as you said at first, the Simister Gang is after your father out of sheer temper, i.e. revenge, that’s one thing. There’s a chance for him. But if, as you suggest now, he’s got a line on them, then I’m afraid that the fabulous sums spent in hiring Mr Campion’s assistance would be a mere waste of money. Consider,’ he went on—‘what can you expect me to do? I tell you quite candidly, your only chance is to get the old boy into Brixton Jail, and that wouldn’t be fun for him.’

      Marlowe Lobbett rose to his feet. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘I told you you were my last hope.’

      Mr Campion hesitated. ‘I’d like to have a whack at Simister,’ he said.

      The young American turned to him quickly. ‘Well, here’s your chance,’ he said. ‘It may be a forlorn chance, but after all, the mischief isn’t done yet.’

      ‘My dear young optimist,’ said Mr Campion admonishingly, ‘in effect you’re saying, “Here’s a nice war; come and sit in it”.’

      He was interrupted from further comment by a tap at the outer door.

      ‘The one-thirty,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Excuse me.’

      He went out of the room and returned immediately with a racing edition of the Evening Standard in his hand. He was smiling. ‘Now I can dress,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘I had my shirt on the Archdeacon!’

      His eye travelled down the stop-press column. Suddenly his expression changed and he handed the paper to his visitor.

      ‘Well-known American’s Narrow Escape’, it ran:

      Judge Crowdy Lobbett, the well-known American visitor, narrowly missed a serious accident when a taxicab mounted the pavement outside his hotel in the Strand and crashed into a shop window this morning at twelve o’clock. No one was injured.

      ‘My God!’ Marlowe Lobbett started for the door. ‘They don’t know where I am—I didn’t leave your address. Isopel will be terrified. I must get along to them at once.’

      Mr Campion had disappeared into his bedroom, which led off the room where they had been talking.

      ‘Wait for me,’ he shouted. ‘I shan’t be a second.’

      Marlowe Lobbett appeared in the doorway. ‘I don’t quite get you.’

      ‘I’m in this,’ said Mr Campion.

CHAPTER 3

      Mystery Mile

      On the grey marshy coast of Suffolk, fifteen miles from a railway station, and joined to the mainland СКАЧАТЬ