Dancers in Mourning (27 page)

As the evening wore on the scattered theories became less diverse and the scene of the disaster, whatever it was, became fixed as a railway station on an eastern line. The words ‘air-raid' persisted, however, even after the more general term ‘explosion' had become frequent, and it was not until the running news bulletins in lights above the roof-tops in Trafalgar Square and in Oxford Street came out with the gist of the story that the town settled down to take in the piquant and rather horribly risible truth.

Mr Campion had gone away on Saturday to Kepesake in Suffolk and had spent a soothing week-end in that remote village where London and European news is not heard at all until it becomes stale or discussed until it becomes history. He heard nothing of the sensation, therefore, until he sank down into a corner of a compartment in the London train at Ipswich station on Monday morning and opened the paper which he had caught up in his flight past the bookstall. Then it was presented to him baldly and with as much detail as could be gathered in the mysterious circumstances.

Above and beside a quarter-page photograph of what appeared to be at first sight the snow-covered relics of a serious fire the headlines were briefly informative.

Fifteen Dead and Injured

Well-known Dancer Among Killed

Mr Campion's startled glance travelled hastily down the column where, as usual, the portentous young voice of the
Morning Telegram
did its best to disguise its natural featherbrained exuberance with heavy dramatics.

‘Three people met their death yesterday morning in what may well prove to be one of the most extraordinary and perhaps far-reaching accidents of modern times. Twelve others lie in the Boarbridge Cottage Hospital injured, some of them gravely so. At the moment the cause of the accident is unknown, but Scotland Yard officials (called in by Lieut.-Col. Percy Beller, Chief Constable for the district) are understood to believe that high explosives were instrumental in causing the disaster.

‘Among the three persons who lost their lives was thirty-two-year-old Benny Konrad, the London revue star, who had travelled to Boarbridge to meet members of a cycling club of which he was the President. Richard Duke, who was also killed, was a member of the cycling party. The third person to die was a porter.'

Having given what it felt was the main story, the
Telegram
, in accordance with its custom, began again in fuller style.

‘Late yesterday morning, when the twelve-three from Birley had just pulled out and the slow up-train from Yarmouth, laden with summer travellers, was in the station, the quiet little country junction of Boarbridge was visited by an explosion so sudden and terrible that Mr Harold Phipps, the stationmaster, tells me that he has seen nothing like it since the War.

‘At the time, unfortunately, the down platform was crowded with visitors. Some forty members of a cycling club had foregathered there to welcome their President, Mr Benny Konrad, the revue star, who had come from London to take part in an annual celebration outing.

‘Mr Konrad, who was in cycling kit, wheeling his machine, a new gift from the club, was laughing and chatting with his friends when there was a sudden deafening explosion and the quiet station was reduced to a shambles of groaning men and women.

‘The glass in the roof, with which the platforms are sheltered, was shattered, as were many of the windows of the stationary train, and a number of the injuries were caused by splintered glass.

‘Two hand-trucks of milk-cans were being drawn by a porter at the time of the accident, and in the panic after the explosion these became strewn upon the line, adding considerably to the general confusion.

‘Doctors were rushed to the scene and the two small waiting-rooms were turned into temporary casualty stations. Trains on the line were held up for nearly an hour.

‘Tonight the cause of the disaster is still a complete mystery. The theory held by some that an infernal machine had been dropped by a passing aircraft has now been generally abandoned, although the stationmaster still stoutly adheres to that view. No one in the thriving little market town of Boarbridge noticed any aeroplane in the vicinity during the morning.

‘Railway officials are silent. The regulations regarding the conveyance of dangerous goods are very strict, but it is just possible that a parcel containing explosive matter may have escaped the vigilance of the authorities.

‘The mystery is deepened by the fact that Mr Phipps insists that both platforms were clear of goods parcels at the time of the accident, and the senior porter, Mr Edward Smith, who is prostrate from severe shock and superficial burns, assured me when I visited him in his cottage at Station Lane that he took nothing from the goods van of the down train save Mr Konrad's bicycle, which was collected by its owner immediately on arrival.

‘In the circumstances the County Police made an instant decision to ask the official help of Scotland Yard experts, and last night Inspector Yeo of the Central Branch of the C.I.D. travelled to Boarbridge, bringing with him Major Owen Bloom and Mr T. P. Culvert, both of the War Office Research Department.

‘Last night it was understood that the incident is not thought to have been political in inspiration, but that possibility is not yet wholly ruled out.

‘The dead are: Benjamin Evelyn Konrad, thirty-two, dancer and revue star, Flat 17, Burnup House, W. I; Richard Edwin Duke, nineteen, 2, Bellows Court Road. S.E.21; Frederick Stiff, forty-three (porter), Queen's Cottages, Layer Road, Boarbridge.'

The list of the injured followed and made appalling reading. Five women, three children and seven men had received wounds of varying gravity, most of which could be accounted for by flying glass from the roof or carriage windows.

Mr Campion put down the paper and stared blankly at the grey upholstery in front of him.

The whole story seemed so utterly incredible that he read it through again carefully before he could attempt to assimilate it. He glanced at the other paper which the fat man in the corner was holding between himself and the world, and there also he caught a glimpse of the same story, so that his first wild notion that the
Telegram
had gone mad and invented the tale in a fit of wanton idiocy was brushed aside as it deserved.

Gradually he accustomed himself to the facts. Konrad was dead, startlingly dead, blown to hell with his ridiculous bicycle and two other unfortunate mortals. Konrad, who until this moment had figured in his mind as a busy little self-seeker blithely scattering trouble broadcast in an attempt to achieve his own dubious ends, had been wiped out by an accident. Of all the forty million to whom the disaster might have occurred it had overtaken only three, and one of these had been Konrad. As a piece of irony he felt it surpassed itself. He did not take his eyes from the paper all the way to London.

A small paragraph tucked away at the foot of the news story recorded that Konrad's was the second violent death to occur in the cast of
The Buffer
within a fortnight, and mentioned as a coincidence that he had been present among the guests at Sutane's house when Chloe Pye had met her tragic end.

Campion was still startled and shocked when he arrived at Liverpool Street. He took a cab to the Junior Greys and was hesitating in the lounge, trying to decide if this strong impulse to phone Sutane was a wise one or the reverse, when he received a message from Scotland Yard.

The note said briefly that Superintendent Stanislaus Oates would be glad if Mr Campion would make it convenient to call upon him at three o'clock that afternoon.

In the ordinary way Campion was not a wavering or unduly apprehensive spirit, but he spent the half-hour before lunch and the hour after it in a restless, nervy mood which all but demoralised him.

At five minutes to three he was walking down a long bare corridor which smelt vaguely of disinfectant behind a helmetless constable and a moment or so later had stepped forward to shake hands with the dour figure who had risen to greet him.

His recent promotion had no more altered Superintendent Stanislaus Oates than had any of the previous steps in his career. He remained at heart the eager, solemn young countryman whose concentration and tenacity had first earned the commendation of a rural inspector nearly thirty-four years before.

He was not an unfriendly man, but even Campion, who probably knew him better than anyone outside the Force itself, was never in danger of permitting familiarity to grow into amicable contempt.

The Superintendent stood for a moment, his shoulders stooping and his pepper-and-salt head bent over the blotter on his desk.

‘Ah, Campion,' he said. ‘Sit down, will you, mate?'

The form of address was a relic of his Dorset days. All through his thirty-four years' slow ascent through the service he had carefully suppressed it, but now that he had attained the peak and promise of his career he brought it out occasionally, a minor laxity permissible in one of his eminence.

‘Been away?'

‘Yes. To Kepesake. I spent the week-end with Guffy Randall and his wife. Do you mind?'

‘No. When did you go?'

‘Saturday morning.'

‘You're staying at your club?'

‘Yes.'

‘Lugg's away?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where?'

‘White Walls, near Birley. Jimmy Sutane's house. Why?'

Campion leant back in the visitor's chair. He knew that his forehead was damp and wondered at himself. Presently he took out a handkerchief and sat looking at it.

The Superintendent seated himself and rested his elbows on the desk. He had a sad, bony face and very interested grey eyes.

‘What do you know about Benny Konrad?'

Suddenly Mr Campion felt more at ease.

‘Very little,' he said cheerfully. ‘I've been acting as honorary adviser to Blest on a private investigation which seemed to be leading towards him. That's all. You've seen Blest, I suppose?'

The policeman's country eyes flickered with a brief smile.

‘Yes. We've seen Blest. Saw him last night. He looked us up.'

Mr Campion thought he had begun to understand and the sneaking, unnameable fear which had been nibbling at the back of his mind all the morning was allayed.

‘You're consulting me, I take it?' he said brightly. ‘It's a great honour. I appreciate it.'

Oates laughed, a dry little explosive sound expressing friendliness and good humour but no amusement. He was singularly seldom amused.

‘I'm questioning you in pursuance of my duties,' he explained laboriously. ‘What was Konrad up to? Do you know?'

‘Up to?' Campion echoed him blankly. ‘My dear man, why are we playing detectives? Come down to earth. You've seen Blest and so you know all Blest knows. I can't tell you any more, old boy. That's all there is to it. Konrad had been playing the fool round the theatre and he was on the verge of being found out. That's the lot.'

‘Ah!' The Superintendent seemed partially satisfied. ‘You've heard about the way he was killed?'

‘I've seen the papers. It seems to have been a nasty accident.'

‘Oh, it was.' Oates was genuinely moved. ‘I went down myself last night and took a look at the place. Then I went on to the hospital and the mortuary. It was fearful. The mess was terrible. Women cut about with glass, you know, doctors digging splinters as long as my fingers out of them. The men who were killed were in a frightful condition. Konrad had a piece of metal blown clean through his head. It had dug a furrow you could put your wrist into clean through the top of his scalp. And the poor porter chap! I won't make you uncomfortable with a description. They got a steel nut out of his stomach.'

His pleasant dry voice ceased but he kept his eyes on Campion's own.

‘It was fearful,' he repeated. ‘I'm not a squeamish man myself, but the sight of that milk and blood and glass everywhere upset me; it made me feel sick. A very extraordinary and dreadful thing altogether,' he finished with a touch of prim severity.

Campion had remained silent throughout the harangue, his face growing more and more grave as his earlier apprehension returned.

‘I don't quite see where all this is leading,' he began cautiously. ‘I'm completely in the dark. I mean, the cause of the explosion had nothing to do with Konrad, surely?'

‘I'm not so sure.' The Superintendent wagged his distinguished head. ‘I'm not so sure at all. I don't know if I ought to tell you, but the opinion here at the moment is that someone threw a bomb at the little blighter.'

For the second time that day Mr Campion experienced that rarest of the emotions, genuine astonishment.

‘No …' he said at last. ‘I don't believe it. It's incredible.'

‘Ah, you think so?' Oates seemed disappointed. He looked down at his desk. ‘Major Bloom is coming along in fifteen minutes or so. He's been at work on the evidence all day. I'm hoping he'll have some definite information for us. So far we've been working on the few hints he could give us last night. From the first look round he told Yeo that in his opinion there was no doubt that the explosion originated roughly on the spot where Konrad was standing. They can tell you that, you know, these fellows, from the general direction of the damage. It's very ingenious how they work it all out. There's no guessing. It's all very scientific. Yeo was particularly impressed.'

‘But –' began Mr Campion, and was silent. ‘A bomb?' he said at last. ‘What sort of a bomb?'

‘That's what I'm waiting to find out,' explained the Superintendent severely. ‘Something very efficacious. I'd like you to have seen that station, my lad. I wouldn't have gone down there myself in the ordinary way, but Yeo and I are friends and the County Police sounded so excited on the phone that I couldn't resist taking a peep. Yeo's coming up at four for a conference. He's been interviewing people down there all day.'