Cargo of Eagles (16 page)

Morty groaned. His head still ached intolerably and for the first time he became aware that a bandage was closely swathed over a lump the size of a tablespoon. He put a tentative hand to the spot.

‘You 'ad an argument with a blunt instrument. Know 'oo 'it yer?'

Beyond his line of vision a door opened and he recognised a familiar voice.

‘A very good question. Have you any idea?'

Mr Campion joined Lugg at the foot of the bed. He was as bland as ever but the lines on his face were more defined than Morty remembered. The patient started to shake his head but abandoned the attempt.

‘Not a clue. It came from behind me. I don't think I walked into a trap. I—I think that damned girl was as surprised as I was.'

‘So I gather.' Mr Campion's tone was diffident. ‘I ran the lady to earth this morning—not without difficulty. She seems to have been thoroughly frightened and to have left you to it. Not a loyal type I'm afraid. She simply fled. She claims she dropped her torch in the rough and tumble which is probably true since I found it this morning. I returned it to her. It made a convenient introduction.'

‘But she saw who it was. She shouted out.'

Mr Campion's frown deepened. ‘That's just the trouble. I don't care for her information at all. It complicates the whole picture. This is a private war and the fewer people who join in the better.' He sat down on the edge of the bed and eyed the young man seriously.

‘You wouldn't consider dropping out of it? I asked you down here to do a little innocent on-the-spot observation for me, not to get your skull cracked. No? I was afraid of that.'

‘If I run away now I'm a lost soul, so include me in. I'm free, white and I feel as old as the hills, but I'm staying on the tail of this bandwagon until I find exactly where it is going. Now come dean. Who coshed me last night?'

Mr Campion sighed.

‘The lady says she'd never seen him before in her life. She's quite emphatic about it and swears it wasn't one of the tearaway boys. A big man, she thinks, but she's only really certain of one thing. He had a black patch over one eye.'

‘Burrows, the man who can hit the weathercock.'

‘As you say—Mr Target Burrows—a very unpleasant personality. Manners none and customs beastly. From my point of view he has another unfortunate characteristic—he is liable to attract official attention.'

For the first time that day Morty smiled.

‘You're being goddam mysterious. Don't you want all the help you can get?'

Mr Campion took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief before replying.

‘My lips ought to be sealed,' he said at last. ‘Like the third oriental monkey—I see and hear evil but I shouldn't speak it. For the sake of your health—and possibly Dido's—the less you know the better. You could say that I am trying to find some Government property. If I succeed I shall misappropriate it, because I have an excellent reason for doing so. That is why I am not overjoyed when little items like poison pen letters, unsolved murders or simple unexplained bangs on the head crop up and attract official attention. I hope I make myself clear?'

‘You know damn well you don't. These two guys, Teague and Burrows, have the same idea, I suppose?'

‘That's roughly the picture.' Mr Campion was choosing his words carefully. ‘This—er—property was probably concealed somewhere in Saltey about twenty years ago, and if that is the case then Teague should know where to look for it. Unfortunately he has vanished extremely efficiently but there's evidence to suggest he's not far off. Burrows on the other hand probably doesn't know where to look or he'd have done so long ago. He may be waiting for his partner to show up and discouraging other enquiries in the meantime. If they are working together again they make a nasty pair and if Teague, in particular, gets caught . . .' He hunched his shoulders and hesitated. ‘If he's caught, we're finished.'

‘How come?'

Campion stood up. ‘Teague has kept his mouth shut all these years when he knew that a few words could earn him remission—possibly immediate release, if he played his cards
right. He's a cold blooded adventurer and it looks as if he's made his long term plans very carefully, as a man often does when he's got plenty of time to think. If he's caught before he gets what he's after, nothing on earth will make him speak. He'll die with his secret.'

Outside the church bells had begun their evening peal and a shaft of light was making the room appear as if it were filled with golden dust. A motor cycle roared past the house headed for Mob's Bowl and Mr Campion waited until the fusillade was over before continuing.

‘If that happens,' he said, ‘the consequences could be tragic. It would almost certainly cause the death of a perfectly innocent woman whose survival is extremely important and it might set up a chain reaction which would involve a great many more lives. My dear chap, I do know that this sounds melodramatic and mysterious but the trouble is that it happens to be unpleasantly true. It's also a trifle urgent, because I have very few days left. So you see, Teague simply mustn't be caught.'

The efficiency of Dido Jones as a doctor, never a matter of doubt to her patients or her admirers, was demonstrated with clinical clarity all through the evening. She had looked in several times, using a thermometer which she wielded so as to make conversation strictly limited, but despite his misgivings Morty found his headache evaporating more quickly than he had dared to hope. Now she returned bearing tea and toast. She was wearing a linen suit of pale cream which emphasised the gleaming ebony of her hair.

‘You're doing very well,' she announced. ‘Temperature normal, pulse normal, bruise coming up nicely. If your head is clear tomorrow you can go back to The Demon—or whatever else you please. Take it easy for a couple of days and don't try to drive a car.'

‘Thank you, doctor.' Morty put as much penitence into his voice as he dared. ‘I—I guess. it's no use saying . . .'

‘Forget it,' she said. ‘I'm going back to town now. I've got work to do in the morning. Lugg will look after you for tonight. He's staying on as caretaker. Goodbye.'

He caught her arm as she turned. ‘Goodbye?'

‘Yes.'

‘Dido, you couldn't get around to seeing me as a wounded warrior—a casualty in some goddam heroic cause that I'm not even allowed to understand?'

Her laugh was cool and almost conventional but there was a trace of real amusement in it.

‘No, Morty. I simply couldn't. It wasn't blood on your face and your shirt, you know. Just a rather off beat brand of lipstick. Very unflattering.'

He did not relax his grip.

‘I guess there's no future in this conversation. Could you give me a consultation about my health, say next Thursday at Quaglino's? It would give me something to live for.'

Dido freed herself. ‘No. Mortimer Kelsey, I could not. The plain truth about you at the moment is that you are in the doghouse, which is a very appropriate place for you, now I come to think of it. Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight is better than goodbye.'

‘If you think so.'

‘Just one thing, lady.'

‘Yes?'

‘Oh, Dido, Dido, Dido . . .'

The door dosed behind her so quietly that he did not hear it. Suddenly he felt old and drowsy. The tea on the table beside him grew cold and through his dreams the ticking of a clock marked the passing of long empty hours.

Mossy Ling left The Demon at five minutes after closing time on Sunday evening, a custom by which many inhabitants of Mob's Bowl set their watches. He was not in a good mood since despite all his efforts to turn attention his way he had not been entirely successful, with the result that he had been
compelled to pay for rather more beer than his carefully calculated economy permitted. Strangers had been sparse for the time of year and he depended upon their support for his refreshment. To add to his difficulties the main topic of conversation had been Morty's exploit in humiliating the tearaways and there had been too many other witnesses to make his account of this affair of particular interest. He had tried a new gambit in the morning but with little success, for the company had been rather too sophisticated for his line of approach. Had it not been for his skill in removing unfinished drinks during the temporary absence of their owners the evening would have been a total failure.

Now he teetered across the pebbled frontage of The Demon, his footsteps making a distinctive clip-clip-crunch as he moved, for he was stiff in one leg and supported himself nimbly enough with a blackthorn. He passed the silent mass of the sail lofts and shuffled purposefully past the row of brick and tile houses known as Salt Street. At the far end he turned into a narrow alley which emerged on to an area of twitchy grass beyond which lay a huddle of darkened shacks which had once been fishermen's cottages. His own habitation, originally a tarred wood stable, had been converted into a two-roomed bungalow but it still kept its half door. The latch clicked sharply as he entered and he left the upper section ajar to give himself sufficient light. Like many old countrymen he kept the place hermetically sealed in summer and winter alike but the stale reek of tobacco, cooking, undisturbed dust and blankets innocent of soap for fifty years did not distress him.

The room was cluttered with a magpie's hoard gathered from the carcases of ships and the discarded junk of attics and rubbish dumps. He lit a small oil lamp, shut himself in for the night and began a long systematic scratch which he found infinitely pleasurable.

Having satisfied the first demand of comfort he unlocked a heavy brass-bound sea chest and took out a bottle, calculating the contents against the wavering flame in the blackened glass
casing. For some time he sat sipping at the nightcap from a tin mug.

A brass ship's clock hung on the peeling wall, but it no longer indicated time, so that the sound when it came could not be mistaken. A floorboard creaked, making the old man jerk his head to one side so that his better ear was towards the inner wall. There was someone in the next room, someone who was waiting just on the other side of the door. He listened for a full minute whilst his hand moved cautiously forward to grip the stick which had been propped against the table.

‘If that's you, Jim Teague, you can come on out. I ain't afraid on yer.'

There was no answer to his call and he moved stealthily towards the door. With one hand on the latch he spoke again, whispering now.

‘Target? Is it Target Burrows come 'ome?'

He pulled the latch so violently that he almost fell into the stale darkness beyond. Hands, strong as iron, gripped him by his shoulders and began to shake him as a dog might deal with a rat.

‘
THERE IS A
female party by the name of Weatherby askin' for Mr Mortimer Kelsey, and she was kind enough to add would see her pronto.'

Mr Lugg stood in the door of the dining room at The Hollies, a sombre apartment whose sage green walls were adorned by maple framed engravings from the works of Sir John Gilbert illustrating the plays of Shakespeare. Titania languished over her ass's head and Falstaff caroused with thespian vigour.

Morty was making a late breakfast whilst Mr Campion did his best to encourage the younger man's indifferent appetite. He had removed the bandage but his head was still uncomfortably sore.

‘You know the lady?'

‘I certainly do,' Morty admitted. ‘She only asks because she wants to know. I warn you, she's a—'

He got no further. Mrs Weatherby strode into the room swinging a shoulder bag as if it were a set of golf clubs. She had discarded her sou'wester and her wild white hair was partialy concealed by a batik scarf. She took in Mr Campion, recognised his type, approved and overcame her surprise in a single breath.

‘Sorry to barge in on you like this but I've dug up a piece of gen which may be rather hot. Didn't realise you weren't alone.'

Morty made the introductions, adding, ‘Mr Campion's man Lugg is going to keep an eye on The Hollies for a day or two. Dr Jones has gone back to town.'

‘A jolly good wheeze,' said Mrs Weatherby. ‘Keep the
snoopers and nosey parkers out. Everyone in Saltey wants to know their neighbour's business.' She glanced round the room. ‘Not that Kitty Kytie had much that was worth pinching. A little Waterford and one Chinese red lacquer cabinet, that's about the lot as I recall. Still, you never know today. Things turn out to be valuable antiques that I wouldn't give house room. No thanks, no coffee for me. I looked for you at The Demon this morning and they told me you were here. Dixie Wishart made quite a song and dance about it but I think a parlourman—if that's what he is—makes everything perfectly respectable. You had a house warming party last night?'

‘You could put it that way,' murmured Mr Campion. ‘I assure you that the proceedings were strictly formal. Morty, for example, had nothing stronger than tea.'

Mrs Weatherby surveyed the younger man critically. ‘If you ask me he's either been in a fight or has a severe hangover—probably both if my information is accurate. However, that's his affair. I came to bring news.' She turned to Campion. ‘Are you in the picture about our local troubles?'

‘I have a watching brief.'

‘Good-oh. Then I don't have to explain about this wretched man Woodrose. I promised that I'd look him up and put things to him straight from the shoulder. I went over to Cheffin's Farm last night—that's his place, you know—intending to have a bit of an up and a downer with him. And what do you think? In my opinion he's done a bunk.'

Morty put down his cup and both men turned on their guest. Mrs Weatherby continued, clearly enjoying the sensation she had caused.

‘I dropped over on my phut-phut about half past eight last night. It's a good safe hour because country people always eat extraordinarily early, in fact on Sunday evenings they generally have a sort of high tea after evensong. Not that Jonah ever goes to church, but his housekeeper Mrs Carp does. Apart from her he lives alone. She's a Felgate you know and all that family
manage to look remarkably like fish, so it's just as well she married that poor clodhopper before he died. She teaches at the Sunday school and spends her free time in the village, but I thought I'd be certain to catch Jonah. I found Nellie Carp all right, but there wasn't a sign of the man. He apparently went off by car for his usual Saturday night spree in London and never returned. Nellie sleeps with her sister on Saturdays and doesn't come in until the morning. What do you think about that?'