Martin Watt looked up.
‘An extraordinary chap,’ he said slowly. ‘What is he?’
Abbershaw hesitated. The more he thought about Mr Albert Campion’s profession the more confused in mind he became. It was not easy to reconcile what he knew of the man with his ideas on con-men and that type of shady character in general. There was even a possibility, of course, that Campion was a murderer, but the farther away his interview with Mrs Meade became, the more ridiculous and absurd that supposition seemed. He did not answer Martin’s question, and the boy went on lazily, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
‘The fellow strikes one as a congenital idiot,’ he said. ‘Even now I’m not sure that he’s not one; yet if it hadn’t been for him we’d all be in a nasty mess at the present moment. It isn’t that he suddenly stops fooling and becomes serious, though,’ he went on, ‘he’s fooling the whole time all right – he is a fool, in fact.’
‘He’s an amazing man,’ said Abbershaw, adding as though in duty bound, ‘and a good fellow.’ But he would not commit himself further, and the silence began again.
Yet no one heard the kitchen door open, or noticed any approach, until a shadow fell over the bright doorway, and Mr Campion, inoffensive and slightly absurd as ever, appeared on the threshold.
‘I’ve scoured the house,’ he murmured, ‘not a soul about. Old Daddy Hun and his pal are not the birds I took them for. They appear to have vamoosed – I fancy I heard a car. Ready?’
‘Did you get the women?’ It was Abbershaw who spoke. Campion nodded. ‘They’re here behind me, game as hell. Bring Prenderby over your shoulder, Watt. We’ll all hang together, women in the centre, and the guns on the outside; I don’t think there’s anyone around, but we may as well be careful. Now for the wide open spaces!’
Martin hoisted the unconscious boy over his shoulder and Abbershaw and Wyatt supported Kennedy, who was now rapidly coming to himself, between them. The girls were waiting for them in the kitchen. Jeanne was crying quietly on Meggie’s shoulder, and there was no trace of colour in Anne Edgeware’s round cheeks, but they showed no signs of panic. Campion marshalled the little force into advancing order, placing himself at the head, Meggie and Jeanne behind him, with Abbershaw on one side and Martin and Anne on the other, while Wyatt and Kennedy were behind.
‘The side door,’ said Campion. ‘It takes us nearest the garage – there may be some juice about now. If not, we must toddle of course. The tour will now proceed, visiting the Albert Memorial, Ciro’s, and the Royal Ophthalmic Hospital . . .’