Free The Tiger In the Smoke by Margery Allingham Page A

not worth the money. The Jew never forbore to say so. Thus the whole performance was a penance as well as a relief. Only the old and trusted availed themselves of it, and then only in exceptional circumstances, so that, in certain circles, ‘it’ll be a case of the Canon’s coat’ had become a phrase denoting the end of the tether in money matters.
    To do him justice, Avril knew exactly what he was about. He had no illusions and possessed in his own queer way a quality of blazing common sense. Almost always he had to redeem the pledge himself. He did not set up as a charitable institution and was in no respect sentimental, but he was humble, he had charity, and he had friends.
    Moreover, in common with many Christians of this classic type, he felt sincerely safer and more at ease when he had given away all he had, like a man passing a ball in a game. In his case the result appeared to be a strange material freedom. He walked, as it were, on the water. The compulsion which demanded his small possessions gave him in return Miss Warburton. It was a splendid exchange.
    He took his nephew and Charlie Luke to Crumb Street by a series of short-cuts, while they followed him with their fingers crossed. They came upon their goal unexpectedly. A last spurt through a pitch dark mews brought them into the heart of its murky length, not a stone’s throw from the police station. Here he paused and looked around at them.
    â€˜Now, where is this poor fellow?’
    â€˜Pump Path,’ said Luke promptly. ‘Up here on the right, past The Feathers.’
    Once out of the wilderness of plinth and portico he knew his own manor as well as any man alive, and he led them swiftly down the dark pavement beside the shuttered shops. It was no night for strolling and there were few people about, but the inevitable group of the under-entertained were lounging round a dark entrance beside the Four Feathers public house. This tavern was of the lesser gin-palace type. It leered at them through the mist, flaunting offhandedly a drab gaiety of tile and trademark, while all along the brass rail which bordered the frosted glass diapering of the saloon window, a row of half heads, grotesquely bisected, were turned to peer at them curiously as they swept by.
    As they brushed through the group a gleam of silver appeared in the alley’s dark mouth and a constable saluted as he recognized Luke.
    â€˜The trouble’s at the other end, sir, near the Bourne Avenue entrance. You’ll need a torch. It’s very thick in there.’
    Luke had already produced one. It had a yellow silk sock tied over it and gave a fairly penetrating beam, but even so progress was difficult.
    The stone way was very worn and sloped sharply from each side to an open gutter in the centre, while the high walls which lined it leaned together, their dark surfaces blank as cliffs.
    â€˜What a place to die in!’ The Chief spoke with disgust.
    â€˜Or to live in, of course.’ Mr Campion’s light voice sounded affable. He had just reached the end of the wall and had come upon a crooked wooden fence which would have appeared self-consciously rustic in a Sussex village. Some little way behind it the square of a small window shone orange in the mist.
    â€˜Back garden of thirty-seven Grove Road,’ said Luke over his shoulder. ‘Last of its kind. (Hands off our beauty spots.) There used to be a row of ’em here, but they’ve all been built over, except that one which is kept tidy by the caretaker of the solicitor’s office. It’s quite a sight in the summer. Four marigolds in a fancy flowerpot. The old man has nuisance-by-cats on the brain. Goes down to the station to complain every Friday. I wonder if he heard anything tonight. Look out, there’s a bit of a bend here somewhere … Ah.’
    The torch beam turned and, following it, they came upon the scene of the trouble. It was a dramatic picture. Some resourceful