The Tiger In the Smoke by Margery Allingham

against her teeth. ‘I wish I’d looked, but I never thought of a murder, see? He was tall and he was clean, sort of scrubbed looking. A thorough-going gentleman, if you can imagine what I mean. Might have been in the Navy. He smiled when he gave the order, but not
at
me. I might have been any sort of girl.’
    â€˜Was he fair or dark?’
    â€˜I couldn’t say. He had his hat on. He’d got brown eyes, and although he was young he looked important. Respectable, that’s the word I’ve been looking for. Respectable. I know I was surprised to see him run. It was like seeing him turn into an ordinary man.’
    â€˜Not the usual Crumb Street type, perhaps?’ murmured Mr Campion.
    â€˜You’ve got it.’ She shot him a surprised smile. ‘He wasn’t. I mean there he was in a good dark overcoat, black hat and white collar. He wasn’t this district at all.’
    â€˜Formal clothes.’ Luke scribbled on the blotter. ‘Why couldn’t you say so before?’
    â€˜Because I didn’t think of them before.’ Her voice was soothing and patient. ‘When this gentleman here mentioned Crumb Street I remembered why I thought he’d come off a train. He had a navy tie with two little stripes on it, very wide apart. Silver-grey and sort of puce and a little sort of flower with a bird’s head coming out of it, very small, between,’
    â€˜Had he though?’ Campion sighed. ‘I wondered about that.’ He leaned over Luke’s shoulder and wrote on the blotter, ‘
Phoenix Rugger Club tie. Geoffrey Levett?
’
    Luke stared at the scribbled words for a moment before he straightened his back and stared at his friend.
    â€˜Get a-way!’ he said softly. ‘You thought you saw him outside here this afternoon, remember?’
    Mr Campion looked very unhappy. ‘It hardly proves – ’ he began.
    â€˜Lord, no. It doesn’t prove it wasn’t King Farouk, but there’s a healthy supposition there. Hallo, Andy, what’s that?’ The final remark was directed to the clerk who was hovering at his elbow, his round face shining with excitement.
    â€˜Going through the deceased’s effects as directed, sir, this was in the wallet. Note the postmark, sir.’
    Luke took the used envelope from him and turned it over. It was addressed to G. Levett Esquire at the Parthenon Club, but on the back an office address with a telephone number had been added in pencil. The postmark was unusually clear and the date was the current one. The letter had gone through the mail that morning.
    Luke pointed to the pencil. ‘Is that his handwriting?’
    â€˜I’m afraid it is. That’s his own office address, of course.’
    They stood looking at one another and Luke put the thought into words.
    â€˜Why did he give him his address, and then run after him and – ? That won’t wash, will it? I could do with a chat with that young man.’
    â€˜Well, have I helped?’ It was Mrs Gollie, glowing with excitement. ‘I mean I – ’
    Luke turned to her and stiffened. The door behind her was opening and a tall sad figure came quietly into the room.
    Assistant Commissioner Stanislaus Oates, Chief of Scotland Yard, wore his honours as he wore everything else, gloomily. He had not changed since Campion had first met him over twenty years before. He was still the shabby dyspeptic figure, thickening unexpectedly in the middle, who peered out at a wicked world from under a drooping hat brim, but he brightened a little at the sight of his old friend and, after nodding to Luke who was standing like a ramrod, came forward with outstretched hand.
    â€˜Hallo, Campion, I thought I might find you here. Just the weather for trouble, isn’t it?’
    A great reputation has many magical qualities: for instance, Detective Slaney got Mrs Gollie out into the C.I.D. Room without her uttering a single word,