Campion 10 The Fashion in Shrouds by Margery Allingham

Author:Margery Allingham [Allingham, Margery]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-03-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I tell you wot, cock,” said Mr. Lugg, looking at an enormous gold hunter which had been entirely ruined, from his point of view, by an engraved tribute in the back which rendered it of little interest to pawnbrokers. “I tell you wot.

She’s not coming.”

Mr. Campion turned away from his sitting-room window and wandered across the carpet, his lean dinner-jacketed shoulders hunched.

“A nasty little girl,” he observed. “Take the crème-de-menthe away. Drink it if you like.”

“And smell like a packet o’ hiccorf suckers. I know.” Lugg waddled to the coffee table and restored the offending bottle to the cocktail cabinet. “You treat me as a sort of joke, don’t you?” he remarked, his great white face complacent. “I’m a regular clown. I make you laugh. I say funny things, don’t I?”

His employer regarded him dispassionately. In his velvet house coat, his chins carelessly ranged over a strangling collar and his little black eyes hopeful, he was not by any means an uncomic figure.

“Well, go on, say it. I’m a laugh, ain’t I?”

“Not to everyone.”

“Wot?” He seemed hurt and also incredulous.

“Not to everyone. A lot of my friends think you’re overrated.”

“Overrated?” The black eyes wavered for a moment before a faint smile spread over the great face. “Reelly?” he said at last, adding tolerantly, “It takes all sorts to make a world, don’t it? It’s a funny thing, I often give meself a laugh. I think we’d better give ’er up, don’t you? It’s no use me sitting around dressed like a parcel if company’s not expected. That’s makin’ trouble.

Mr. Tuke advises me to wear lower collars. One inch above the shirtband, in ’is opinion, is quite sufficient if a gentleman ’as an ’eavy neck. What would you say?”

“What’s the time?”

“Close on arf-past. She’s not comin’. She’s led you up the gardin. That’s a woman all over. I don’t know what you want to bother with them for. Two blokes

’ave died and are tucked up tidy, and what if there is a lot of talk about your sis and a sleepin’ tonic? That’s nothin’. Leave it alone. Fergit it. Be a gent and look it in the face and don’t see it.”

“A sleeping tonic?” Mr. Campion’s pale eyes were cold behind his spectacles and Mr. Lugg perceived the pitfall too late.

“A naspirin, then,” he said defiantly. “Fergit it. Don’t roll in the mud. Don’t bathe yerself in it.”

“When did you hear this?”

“Oh, ages ago. Months, it was. Last week per’aps.” Mr. Lugg was throwing the subject about until he lost it. “I changed the conversation, if you want to know, same as any gent would ’oo ’adn’t fergot ’isself.”

“Where was this? At your beastly pub?”

“I may ’ave ’eard a careless word at the club. I really fergit.” Mr. Lugg’s eyes were veiled and his dignity was tremendous.

“The club!” said Mr. Campion with a force and bitterness which were unusual in him. “All the blasted clubs. Oh, my God, what a mess! There’s the bell at last.

Let her in, there’s a good chap.

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