Free Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories by Margery Allingham

the sitting-room. As the door of the brilliantly lit apartment closed behind them his exasperation boiled over. “Ten minutes ago I had a pretty little open-and-shut case to show you, yet the moment you come beaming into it it turns sour on me.”
    The smile had vanished from Mr. Campion’s face as his eyes took in the scene. He stood looking down at the heavy figure of a middle-aged man, bald and running badly to fat, which sprawled over the desk before the curtained window.
    “Nothing exactly decorative about this,” he observed grimly. “Shot?”
    “Yes. From the doorway. Death instantaneous. He’s the owner of the flat and lived alone here.”
    “I see. Our friend in the purple suit didn’t do it.”
    “Chippy. No. Couldn’t have. That’s the devil of it. Constable Richards, who lives next door to Chippy’s aunt and who overlooks her lighted kitchen from his back door, gives him an alibi.” He paused. “Look, Campion, consider this. It’s now midnight. Two hours ago we were called in by a doctor who lives in the apartment above this one. He—”
    Mr. Campion coughed. “Introduce me to the corpse.”
    “Well—” Oates hesitated, “—his name was Fane and he wasn’t pleasant. He made money on the turf and more in ways less orthodox.”
    “Blacking merchant?”
    “No evidence to date but considerable suspicion.”
    “Dear me,” said Mr. Campion mildly. “Continue with the doctor.”
    “He phoned at ten and his story is quite straightforward. He knew Fane slightly and came in here at a quarter to six to give him a draught for a violent headache. Fane refused to go to bed because he was expecting Figg. The doctor left in time to reach a cocktail party some distance away at six.”
    “Did the doctor know Figg?”
    “Slightly. The whole block did. He’s a colourful figure who always called on Fane on Thursday nights. He does quite a lot of bookmaking.”
    “Any more on Figg?”
    “A little. Last week the two quarrelled and were heard all over the building. Tonight, while the doctor was at the Eclipse Sporting Club, he received a mysterious message on the phone in a cockney accent telling him to go to Fane quickly. He hurried back to find this door on the latch and Fane lying as you see him, still warm, the radio going full blast.”
    Campion eyed the set. “Powerful?” he inquired.
    “Terrific. The couple below say it was roaring from ten minutes to six until the doctor turned it off after he found Fane. No one could have noticed the shot above the row.”
    “Depressing neighbour. Anyone see anything?”
    “No. The porter says he saw no visitors but he’s been in and out of the hall and might have missed anyone. It seemed certain that Figg had slipped by him, but, as you heard, his alibi is perfect. He didn’t arrive until after we did.”
    “Lucky chap. Can I see the doctor?”
    “Of course. He’s still in his flat upstairs. I doubt if he can add to what he’s said already.”
    Campion said nothing and was still silent when the doctor came bustling in a few minutes later.
    “I admit I did not know him well,” he said waving at the dead man, “but it was a shock, you know, a considerable shock. Poor fellow, he was still warm when I found him, but there wasn’t a hope.”
    “No,” said Campion, “not with a bullet through his heart. Tell me, doctor, have you a large practice here?”
    “None at all. I’ve retired.” The man seemed put out. “I thought I made that clear. No, a G.P.’s life is too arduous for me, I’m afraid. I gave up medicine six years ago. Did you get hold of Figg, Inspector?”
    “Yes, but the man has an alibi.”
    “An alibi? But I could have sworn I…” The doctor bit back the words but Oates seized on them.
    “You were going to say you recognised his voice on the phone.”
    “No, no, I can’t be as explicit as that but I must admit that at the time it went through my mind that the voice resembled—Good Heavens, sir!”
    The final exclamation