Lying on the carpet was a battered portmanteau, while round it, spread out in dazzling array, was as choice a collection of unfamiliar silver as ever he had seen. Blinking a little, he pushed open the door and glanced round. A sturdy, respectable figure with a round face and a permanently injured expression rose stiffly from an upright chair.
Campion surveyed the man in astonishment. He was a perfect stranger and was neatly dressed in nondescript tweeds.
“Mr. Campion?” he demanded in a brisk, high-pitched voice so often possessed by men of his figure. “Your man said I could wait ’ere for you.”
“Oh yes, quite.” Campion’s gaze wandered back to the array upon the floor. “You’ve brought your — luggage, I see.”
“My name’s Boot,” said the visitor, ignoring the remark. “Miss Pleyell said I was to see you before I went to the police. Come what might, I was to see you first. That’s what she said.”
A great light dawned slowly upon Mr. Campion.
“You’re not Herbert, by any chance?” he enquired.
Mr. Boot blushed.
“My young lady calls me Herbert,” he admitted grudgingly. “I’m a private enquiry agent in the employ of Miss Chloe Pleyell. She said she’d mentioned me to you. Is that right?”
“Oh yes. Yes, she did. She did indeed. Won’t you sit down?”
Mr. Campion’s pale eyes were narrowed behind his spectacles. Gracie’s young man was not at all the type he had expected.
“I’d rather stand if you don’t mind,” said Herbert without impoliteness. “Time’s short. I’ve been here since noon. Notice anything about this lot?”
Mr. Campion ran a thoughtful eye over the glistening treasure trove at his feet. One item in particular caught his special attention. It was a large Georgian sugar sifter lined with blue glass and decorated with a design of hand-pierced ivy leaves. The center of one leaf was exquisitely engraved with the tiny likeness of a cupid in a boat.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Campion.
“Seen the police lists lately, sir?” Herbert enquired, his aggrieved expression deepening. “I have. Do you know what this collection represents? It’s the proceeds of a robbery committed on the night of the fifteenth at a house in Manchester Square. Hewes-Bellewe was the family’s name. In the papers the police were said to be looking for a person they’re pleased to call the Question Mark. Now you see, sir, whatever you or Miss Pleyell may say, I must go to the police with this stuff. I must. It’s my duty and in a way my privilege. I owe it to myself. I’ve found it. I’ve got to report it. I know there’s a dangerous criminal masquerading as a gentleman of title, and although I’m very sorry for Miss Pleyell, I’m in a cleft stick. I’ve got to do my duty.”
Mr. Campion felt a little giddy.
“Look here, Herbert,” he said at last, “let me get this clear. You’re not thinking of accusing Sir Matthew Pearing of being the Question Mark, are you?”
Herbert’s bright brown eyes became belligerent.
“I’m telling the police all I know,” he said. “Since he done it he ought to be made to pay for it, lord though he may be.”
“Baronet,” corrected Mr. Campion absently, his mind grappling with the absurdities of the situation. “Before we go along to the Yard I think you’d better tell me the full story.”
“Would that be Scotland Yard, sir?” Mr. Boot’s tone was suddenly respectful. “I’ve always wanted to go there and see the big shots,” he added naively. “I was afraid I’d have to take these along to a common police station and let some jack-in-office of a local inspector take most of the credit.”
“Oh, I’ll take you to Scotland Yard all right,” said Mr. Campion, feeling a little foolish. “We’ll go and have tea with the superintendent, if you like. Where did you get all this incriminating property?”
Mr. Boot smiled. The mention of the name Scotland Yard seemed to have thawed him into childlike affability. He sat down.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “Out of the cloakroom at Charing Cross. Fancy that.”
“Fancy indeed,” echoed Campion. “Where did you get the ticket?”
“Ah... ” Herbert raised his head. “Where do you think? Out of one of his lordship’s own blessed suits, and that’s a fact. I’ve got witnesses.”
It seemed to Mr. Campion that ever since he had met Chloe on the previous afternoon the very flavor of life had been touched with the fantastic, a circumstance he had attributed entirely to the influence of her personality, but this was a frank absurdity and he began to doubt his ears.
Herbert beamed at his perplexity.
“I’ll tell you the story,” he said. “I can see you’re a bit took back and I don’t blame you. I was myself when I first opened this case. I was put on to Sir Matthew Pearing by Miss Pleyell, who got to know of me through my young lady. Just keep an eye on Sir Matthew, she said. Naturally I asked her in what way, and she said she didn’t know but she thought there was something definitely mysterious about him. Those were her very words, sir; ‘definitely mysterious.’ ”
Campion groaned silently and Herbert continued.
“Well, I kept an eye on the gentleman,” he said, folding his hands on his waistcoat. “And what did I find? Nothing at all for a long time. That Sir Matthew’s a sly bird. For weeks he went on living a most regular life with his servants as solemn as he was. And then — chance took a ’and.”
He nodded complacently.
“Then I got a bit o’ luck. There’s a Mr. Tuke who is ’is lordship’s valet. I ingratiated myself with ’im. He’s one of these lazy overpaid gent’s gents, and I found out he ’ad the sauce to send ’is master’s suits down to the quick cleaners’ to save ’isself the trouble of doing the pressing. ’E paid for them out of ’is own money, I daresay, but it wasn’t right. I said nothing of course, and as it happened that little trick of Master Tuke’s was lucky for me. This morning I was in the kitchen — I often go round there early — and Mr. Tuke asked me if I’d do him a favor by slipping down to the cleaners’ and collecting a dinner jacket outfit he’d left there last night. I went, and when the girl gave me the parcel she handed over a little black wallet that had been left in the pocket. I examined it in accordance with my duties, and inside I found two penny stamps and a cloakroom ticket.”
“You hung on to the wallet?”
“I did.” Herbert spoke firmly. “I examined it in front of the girl. I’m very careful. You have to be in this business. I made her make a note of the case, the stamps and the number of the ticket. Then I came away. I gave the suit to Mr. Tuke, who identified it, mind you, but I kept the wallet and I went down to Charing Cross. I gave up the ticket at the cloakroom. I got this suitcase in return and I opened it before the attendant. ‘Now, my lad,’ I said to him when I see what was inside, ‘I’m a detective. Take a good look at me. Here’s my card,’ I said. ‘Take a look at this stuff,’ I said. ‘I’ll need you as a witness.’ After that I gave ’im a signed receipt for the case and kept the cloakroom ticket. I took a copy of the receipt and I mentioned the number of the cloakroom ticket on each slip of paper.”
“Did you, though?” said Mr. Campion, whose respect for Herbert’s perspicacity was slowly mounting. “Then you went to Miss Pleyell and she sent you on to me, I suppose?”
“Exactly,” his visitor agreed. “And now, if you please, sir, I’d like to go to Scotland Yard.”
Mr. Campion glanced at the silver at his feet.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes. Quite. I think you’d better. I’ll come with you.”
A little over an hour later, Superintendent Stanislaus Oates sat behind his desk in his private office at the headquarters of the Central Branch and stared at his friend Mr. Albert Campion, a slightly bewildered expression in his bright blue eyes.