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

was addressed to Campion, who had suddenly moved forward and, exerting all his strength, pulled the body up off the desk.
    The sight was terrible. The entire corpse moved in one solid mass, the knees remaining bent, the head thrust out stiffly.
    “Rigor very well advanced,” muttered Mr. Campion, a little breathless from the exertion.
    “Good lord, yes. Much more so than I had expected.” The doctor’s eyes had widened. “It does happen, of course I’ve known it to be instantaneous. Cadaveric spasm, we call it. In this case…”
    He got no further. Campion had released his hold on the body, allowing it to return to its original position. In his other hand was a sheet of paper torn from the scribbling pad which was covered with figures. It had lain hidden under the dead man’s head. When he looked up his eyes were hard. “How much did you owe him, doctor?” he inquired softly. “He was putting on the pressure, I suppose? What did you do with the revolver? Leave it at the club?”
    “This is a monstrous accusation, sir. My solicitor…”
    “Really, Campion…” Oates began nervously.
    Campion’s voice silenced him. “Fane has got you, doctor. You may have shot him but he’ll convict you—with this.”
    He held the paper out to Oates who snatched it. The doctor stared at it over his arm.
    “It’s only a list of his day’s winnings,” he said angrily. “There’s no proof of anything here.”
    Campion’s thin forefinger pointed to a single item: 4.30 Iron Ore won 6-4 £133.6.8.
    Oates raised worried eyes. “I don’t get it,” he said. “What are you driving at?”
    “Iron Ore didn’t win,” said Mr. Campion. “It passed the post first, and was credited with a win in the stop press of the afternoon editions but there was a spot of bumping and an objection was sustained. This was announced on the sports news. If Fane was sitting here with the radio going at six o’clock he could hardly have missed it unless…”
    “Unless?”
    “Unless he was dead by then. The doctor says himself he saw him at ten minutes to six—quick, Oates!”
    He sprang after the flying figure of the doctor who eluded him only to crash into a couple of constables in the vestibule.
    In the excitement Mr. Figg, ever an opportunist, quietly took his leave.
    Later, the Detective Inspector looked round for Mr. Campion. He found him sleeping peacefully in the bedroom with such a beatific smile on his face that Oates took pleasure in waking him. “How did you do that?” he demanded.
    Campion yawned. “Doctor’s evidence,” he said. “What man with a headache sits by a blaring radio? Besides, a cadaveric spasm, as you know, is instantaneous. The doctor did not notice it when he found the body; therefore it was ordinary rigor, which takes some hours to develop.”
    Oates laughed. “Fair enough, but I still call it luck,” he said. “You just happened to know the details of that race. It’s your lucky day.”
    Mr. Campion’s smile broadened. “I couldn’t agree with you more,” he murmured. “I had a tenner on the second horse. That was how I knew.”
    Oates grunted. “Long odds?”
    “Fifty to one.”
    “Good lord, what’s its name?”
    “Amateur,” whispered Mr. Campion. “That was why I came to back it. I’m not a betting man.”

“Tis Not Hereafter
    When I was sent out to the small house on the marsh to look for the ghost there, I went stolidly and uncomplainingly, as is my nature.
    I was an ugly, over-energetic little beast in my late teens, and had just begun to realize that my chosen profession of journalism was not the elegant mixture of the diplomatic service and theatrical criticism which my careers mistress had led me to suppose.
    The general direction in which the house lay was pointed out by the postmaster of the most forlorn village ever to have graced the Essex coast. He stood leaning over a narrow counter with a surface like cracked toffee and shook his head at me warningly.
    ‘That’s no