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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 spite of his agitation and the importance of his errand, Marlowe could not help noticing the extraordinary character of the room in which he sat. It was tastefully, even luxuriously, furnished. There were one or two delightful old pieces, a Rembrandt etching over the bureau, a Steinlen cat, a couple of original cartoons, and a lovely little Girtin.

But amongst these were scattered a most remarkable collection of trophies. One little group over the mantelpiece comprised two jemmies, crossed, surmounted by a pair of handcuffs, with a convict’s cap over the top. Lying upon a side table, apparently used as a paper knife, was a beautiful Italian dagger, the blade of which was of a curious greenish-blue shade, and the hilt encrusted with old and uncut gems.

Campion picked it up. ‘That’s the Black Dudley dagger,’ he said. ‘An old boy I met was stuck in the back with that, and everyone thought I’d done the sticking. Not such fun. I suppose you’ve seen most of the sights of London by now,’ he went on. ‘There’s my Great-aunt Emily. I’ve often thought of running a good cheap char-à-bancs tour round her.’

Marlowe Lobbett did not smile. ‘You’ll forgive me,’ he said, ‘but can’t we drop this fooling? I’ve come to you as a last chance, Mr Campion.’

The boy’s gravity was sobering, but his irrepressible host, after a momentary expression of contrition had passed over his face, began once more. ‘Rather—anything I can do for you,’ he said affably. ‘I undertake almost anything these days. But nothing sordid. I will not sell that tinted photograph of myself as Lord Fauntleroy. No. Not all your gold shall tempt me. I am leaving that to the Nation. Patriotism, and all that sort of rot,’ he chattered on, proffering a particularly dangerous-looking cocktail. ‘All my own work. It contains almost everything except tea. Now, young sir, what can I do for you?’

Marlowe accepted the drink. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘do you always talk like this?’

Mr Campion looked abashed. ‘Almost always,’ he said. ‘People get used to it in time. I can’t help it, it’s a sort of affliction, like stammering or a hammer toe. My friends pretend they don’t notice it. What did the police say to you this morning?’

The last question was put so abruptly that Marlowe Lobbett had not time to conceal his surprise. ‘What do you know about it?’ he demanded. ‘How do you know that I visited your police headquarters this morning?’

Mr Campion advanced with great solemnity and gingerly removed a tiny piece of fluff from his visitor’s overcoat with his thumb and forefinger. ‘A police hair, my dear Watson,’ he said. ‘I noticed it as soon as you came in. Since then my brain has been working. I suppose they funked it?’ he went on with sudden directness.

Marlowe glanced up. ‘They wouldn’t guarantee his safety,’ he said.

Mr Campion shook his head. ‘I don’t altogether blame them,’ he said soberly. ‘Your own police in New York weren’t handing out any insurance certificates, were they?’

‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘That is the main reason why I got the old boy over here. Our Big Noise over there told me that in his opinion they were playing cat-and-mouse with father and that they’d get him just whenever they pleased. You see,’ he burst out impatiently, ‘it’s mostly the old boy’s fault. He won’t stand for any reasonable restraint. He won’t let the police look after him in their way. You see, he’s never been afraid of—’ He hesitated, and added the word ‘them’ with a peculiar intonation. ‘And he’s not going to begin now. He’s not crazy. He just feels that way about it. You see what I’m up against.’

‘Not quite,’ said Mr Campion thoughtfully. ‘How come, boy? How come?’

Marlowe stared at him in astonishment. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand you at all, Mr Campion. When you saved my father on the Elephantine surely you had some idea of what was up?’

‘Well, naturally,’ said the owner of the flat airily, ‘but not very much. I met an old burgling friend of mine on board and he pointed out a fellow graduate of his, as it were, who had suddenly got very pally with old Hanky Panky the Magician. Like all professional men, we took an intelligent interest in the fellow’s technique, and, well, I just borrowed friend Haig in case of emergencies. Do you know,’ he rattled on, ‘I believe that mouse was fond of me? I am glad it was a sudden death. By the way,’ he continued, ‘may I ask, was it because of my stupendous platform appearance that you came to me today?’

Marlowe Lobbett hesitated. ‘Not altogether,’ he admitted. ‘In fact, when I was talking to Chief Inspector Deadwood at Scotland Yard this morning and I found that they couldn’t promise to protect the old boy without a regular police guard, which father would never stand, I appealed to him as a man to tell me of someone to whom I could go.’

Mr Campion chuckled. ‘Good for him,’ he said. ‘Behold Albert Campion, C.I.D.—i.e. Cell in Dartmoor,’ he explained regretfully. ‘But it hasn’t come to that yet. You know of course who “they” are?’ he said suddenly.

Marlowe Lobbett was becoming used to these lightning changes of mood. He nodded, his shrewd dark eyes fixed upon the spectacles which hid Mr Campion’s seriousness from him. ‘Simister.’ He spoke the word so softly that it sounded like a whisper. Mr Campion was silent for some moments, and Marlowe Lobbett suddenly leaned forward in his chair.

‘Mr Campion,’ he said, ‘can you tell me about this man Simister? What is he? A gangster? A master crook? Is he a single personality at all? In New York they say his records go back for over a hundred years, and that no such person exists. According to them a powerful gang is using the word as a sort of trade name. Tell me,’ he went on. ‘Does he exist?’

A laugh escaped Mr Campion. ‘My dear man,’ he said, ‘somewhere on this earth there is a man called Simister. He may be a devil—a bogle—anything you like, but he’s as real a power of evil as dope is. I’m not saying this to chill your youthful ardour,’ he went on, ‘but it’s most dangerous to underrate an enemy. This is all I know about him. I’ve talked to crooks and I’ve talked to policemen—I’ve even talked to members of his own gang—but I’ve never met anyone yet who has set eyes on him. Apparently he’s a voice on the telephone, a shadow on the road, the gloved hand that turns out the light in the crook play; but with one big difference—he’s never caught. There are thousands of amazing yarns told about him, and in not one of them does a hint of his face ever appear. They say no one ever escapes him.’

Marlowe moved uneasily in his chair. ‘I’ve heard that,’ he said, ‘and that’s why I’ve come to you—as a last chance, if you’ll forgive me saying so. Can you do anything for me?’

Mr Campion eyed him owlishly, but he did not give a direct reply. ‘There’s one thing I don’t get,’ he said. ‘Why your father?’

Marlowe Lobbett rose to his feet and walked up and down the room. ‘That’s what gets me,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing I can help. It’s nothing money can undo. It’s a sort of revenge.’

Campion nodded. ‘I see,’ he said gravely. ‘Anything else?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Marlowe spoke helplessly. ‘You see,’ he went on with sudden confidence. ‘I’ve found all this out with difficulty. It goes back a long time. When I was a kid of course I hadn’t much idea of what father was up to. I’ve only recently dug out the truth from him, and he won’t admit much, even to me. Apparently the old boy has been fighting the Simister Gang all his life. He was the only weapon the police really had. When they got a gangster dad gave it to him hot. He wasn’t unjust, you understand, he was just hard where they were concerned. But he couldn’t make any real impression on them. Quite suddenly—it was after the Steinway trial (he wasn’t trying that, you know, he was just advising; that was after he had retired)—they went for him. We’ve lived in terror for him for over six months,’ he finished quietly.

‘Not a Mothers’ Union Outing,’ said Mr Campion appreciatively, and added more gravely, ‘Is that all?’

Marlowe Lobbett hesitated. ‘Well, the rest is only conjecture,’ he said.

‘Let’s have it,’ said Mr Campion.

Marlowe sat down again and lit a cigarette, which he did not smoke.

‘Well, you must understand,’ he began hesitatingly, ‘my father has said nothing to me to give me this idea. I don’t know anything for certain, but from several things that have happened lately I believe that he’s got something pretty definite on the Simister Gang. You see,’ he went on abruptly, ‘ “advisory work” is such a vague term. I can’t help feeling that it may mean that he’s been devoting himself to investigations about these Simister people. He probably wouldn’t admit it for fear of scaring us. I believe the old boy tumbled on something. I’ve been trying to figure out what it could be, and it’s occurred to me that he might have stumbled on some clue as to the actual identity of this Simister fellow himself.’

Mr Campion took off his spectacles and his pale eyes regarded his visitor in frank astonishment. ‘I hope for your sake that what you think is not true. If, as you said at first, the Simister Gang is after your father out of sheer temper, i.e. revenge, that’s one thing. There’s a chance for him. But if, as you suggest now, he’s got a line on them, then I’m afraid that the fabulous sums spent in hiring Mr Campion’s assistance would be a mere waste of money. Consider,’ he went on—‘what can you expect me to do? I tell you quite candidly, your only chance is to get the old boy into Brixton Jail, and that wouldn’t be fun for him.’

Marlowe Lobbett rose to his feet. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘I told you you were my last hope.’

Mr Campion hesitated. ‘I’d like to have a whack at Simister,’ he said.

The young American turned to him quickly. ‘Well, here’s your chance,’ he said. ‘It may be a forlorn chance, but after all, the mischief isn’t done yet.’

‘My dear young optimist,’ said Mr Campion admonishingly, ‘in effect you’re saying, “Here’s a nice war; come and sit in it”.’

He was interrupted from further comment by a tap at the outer door.

‘The one-thirty,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Excuse me.’

He went out of the room and returned immediately with a racing edition of the Evening Standard in his hand. He was smiling. ‘Now I can dress,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘I had my shirt on the Archdeacon!’

His eye travelled down the stop-press column. Suddenly his expression changed and he handed the paper to his visitor.

‘Well-known American’s Narrow Escape’, it ran:

Judge Crowdy Lobbett, the well-known American visitor, narrowly missed a serious accident when a taxicab mounted the pavement outside his hotel in the Strand and crashed into a shop window this morning at twelve o’clock. No one was injured.

‘My God!’ Marlowe Lobbett started for the door. ‘They don’t know where I am—I didn’t leave your address. Isopel will be terrified. I must get along to them at once.’

Mr Campion had disappeared into his bedroom, which led off the room where they had been talking.

‘Wait for me,’ he shouted. ‘I shan’t be a second.’

Marlowe Lobbett appeared in the doorway. ‘I don’t quite get you.’

‘I’m in this,’ said Mr Campion.