Mystery Mile - Margery Allingham

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quite the time to discuss this, my boy,’ he said. ‘Someone knew I couldn’t resist a conjuror. But I don’t think we’ll discuss it here.’

      He glanced round as he spoke, and the chief, following the direction of his eyes, suddenly caught sight of the pale young man with the horn-rimmed spectacles who was still standing foolishly by the dismantled cabinet. The officer frowned.

      ‘I thought I gave orders for the lounge to be cleared,’ he said. ‘May I ask, sir, what you’ve got to do with this affair?’

      The young man started and coloured uncomfortably.

      ‘Well, it was my mouse,’ he said.

      It was some time before the chief could be made to understand what he was saying, but when at last he did he was hardly sympathetic.

      ‘All the same, I think we can manage without you,’ he said bluntly.

      The dismissal was unmistakable, and the pale young man smiled nervously and apologized with a certain amount of confusion. Then he crept off the platform like his own mouse, and had almost reached the door before young Marlowe Lobbett overtook him.

      The young American had left his father and sister on the platform and came up eagerly. His dark-skinned face and piercing eyes gave him almost a fierce expression, and the pale young man in the spectacles had an impression of someone abounding in energy that was not solely physical.

      ‘I’d like to thank you,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And,’ he added bluntly, ‘I’d like to talk to you. I’m greatly indebted to you, but I don’t see quite where you come in on this. What’s your game? Who are you?’

      The pale young man looked, if possible, even more foolish than before.

      ‘My game?’ he said. ‘I don’t quite know what you mean. I toss a few cabers, and tiddle a wink occasionally, and I’m a very fair hand at shove-halfpenny.’

      He paused.

      Marlowe Lobbett was looking at him steadily.

      ‘This is more serious for me than it is for you,’ he said slowly.

      The pale young man grew suddenly very red and uncomfortable.

      ‘I’ve got a card here somewhere.’ He took a handful of miscellaneous odds and ends out of his coat pocket, and selecting a visiting card handed it gravely to Marlowe.

      ‘My trade card,’ he said, ‘if there’s anything I can do for you, ring me up. I don’t suppose we shall meet again on board. We bus conductors feel dreadfully out of place here.’

      Then, grinning fatuously, he bowed and disappeared through the doorway out of sight, leaving the other staring after him.

      The whole conversation had taken less than ten seconds.

      Undecided whether the stranger was genuine or not, young Lobbett glanced at the card in his hand. It was immaculate and beautifully engraved:

      MR ALBERT CAMPION

       Coups neatly executed

       Nothing sordid, vulgar or plebeian

       Deserving cases preferred

       Police no object

      PUFFINS CLUB

      THE JUNIOR GREYS

      On the back a phone number had been scribbled:

      Regent 01300

      The Simister Legend

      After half an hour’s experience of the vagaries of the London telephone service Marlowe Lobbett could hear the telephone bell ringing in some far-off room in the great city which seemed to be huddling round his hotel as if it were trying to squeeze the life out of it.

      At last he heard the welcome click at the far end of the wire and a thick and totally unexpected voice said huskily, ‘Aphrodite Glue Works speaking.’

      Marlowe Lobbett sighed. ‘I want Regent 01300,’ he said.

      ‘That’s right,’ said the voice. ‘ ’Oo do you want?’

      The young man glanced at the card in front of him, and a wave of disappointment overwhelmed him. He had cherished the idea that he could rely upon the man who had come to his father’s rescue so successfully on board the Elephantine.

      ‘No, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to speak to a Mr Albert Campion.’

      ‘Oh?’ The voice became confidential immediately. ‘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

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