THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS
by
JOHN BUCHAN
TO
THOMAS ARTHUR NELSON
(LOTHIAN
and BORDER HORSE)
My Dear Tommy,
You
and I have long cherished an affection
for
that elemental type
of tale
which Americans call the ‘dime novel’
and
which we know
as the ‘shocker’
--the romance
where the incidents defy the probabilities,
and march just inside the borders
of the possible.
During an illness last winter I exhausted my store
of those aids
to cheerfulness,
and was driven
to write one
for myself.
This little volume is the result,
and I
should like
to put your name
on it
in memory
of our long friendship,
in the days
when the wildest fictions are so much less improbable
than the facts.
, , , , ,
J.B.
, , , , ,
CONTENTS
1.
The Man
who Died
2.
The Milkman Sets Out
on his Travels
3.
The Adventure
of the Literary Innkeeper
4.
The Adventure
of the Radical Candidate
5.
The Adventure
of the Spectacled Roadman
6.
The Adventure
of the Bald Archaeologist
7.
The Dry-Fly Fisherman
8.
The Coming
of the Black Stone
9.
The Thirty-Nine Steps
10.
Various Parties Converging
on the Sea
CHAPTER ONE
The Man
who Died
I returned
from the City
about three o’clock
on
that May afternoon pretty well disgusted
with life.
I had been three months
in the Old Country,
and was fed up
with it.
If anyone had told me a year ago
that I
would have been feeling like
that I
should have laughed
at him;
but
there was the fact.
The weather made me liverish,
the talk
of the ordinary Englishman made me sick.
I couldn’t get enough exercise,
and the amusements
of London seemed
as flat
as soda-water
that has been standing
in the sun.
‘Richard Hannay,’
I kept telling myself,
‘you have got
into the wrong ditch,
my friend,
and you had better climb out.’
, , , , ,
It made me bite my lips
to think
of the plans I had been building up those last years
in Bulawayo.
I had got my pile
--not one
of the big ones,
but good enough
for me;
and I had figured out all kinds
of ways
of enjoying myself.
My father had brought me out
from Scotland
at the age
of six,
and I had never been home since;
so England was a sort
of Arabian Nights
to me,
and I counted
on stopping there
for the rest
of my days.
, , , , ,
But
from the first I was disappointed
with it.
In
about a week I was tired
of seeing sights,
and
in less
than a month I had had enough
of restaurants
and theatres
and race-meetings.
I had no real pal
to go
about with,
which probably explains things.
Plenty
of people invited me
to their houses,
but they didn’t seem much interested
in me.
They
would fling me a question
or two
about South Africa,
and
then get
on their own affairs.
A lot
of Imperialist ladies asked me
to tea
to meet schoolmasters
from New Zealand
and editors
from Vancouver,
and
that was the dismalest business
of all.
Here was I,
thirty-seven years old,
sound
in wind
and limb,
with enough money
to have a good time,
yawning my head off all day.
I had just
about settled
to clear out
and get back
to the veld,
for I was the best bored man
in the United Kingdom.
, , , , ,
That afternoon I had been worrying my brokers
about investments
to give my mind something
to work on,
and
on my way home I turned
into my club
--rather a pot-house,
which took
in Colonial members.
I had a long drink,
and read the evening papers.
They were full
of the row
in the Near East,
and
there was an article
about Karolides,
the Greek Premier.
I rather fancied the chap.
From all accounts he seemed the one big man
in the show;
and he played a straight game too,
which was more
than
could be said
for most
of them.
I gathered
that they hated him pretty blackly
in Berlin
and Vienna,
but
that we were going
to stick
by him,
and one paper said
that he was the only barrier
between Europe
and Armageddon.
I remember wondering
if I
could get a job
in those parts.
It struck me
that Albania was the sort
of place
that might keep a man
from yawning.
, , , , ,
About six o’clock I went home,
dressed,
dined
at the Cafe Royal,
and turned
into a music-hall.
It was a silly show,
all capering women
and monkey-faced men,
and I did not stay long.
The night was fine
and clear
as I walked back
to the flat I had hired near Portland Place.
The crowd surged past me
on the pavements,
busy
and chattering,
and I envied the people
for having something
to do.
These shop-girls
and clerks
and dandies
and policemen had some interest
in life
that kept them going.
I gave half-a-crown
to a beggar
because I saw him yawn;
he was a fellow-sufferer.
At Oxford Circus I looked up
into the spring sky
and I made a vow.
I
would give the Old Country another day
to fit me
into something;
if nothing happened,
I
would take the next boat
for the Cape.
, , , , ,
My flat was the first floor
in a new block
behind Langham Place.
There was a common staircase,
with a porter
and a liftman
at the entrance,
but
there was no restaurant
or anything
of
that sort,
and each flat was quite shut off
from the others.
I hate servants
on the premises,
so I had a fellow
to look after me
who came
in
by the day.
He arrived
before eight o’clock every morning
and used
to depart
at seven,
for I never dined
at home.
, , , , ,
I was just fitting my key
into the door
when I noticed a man
at my elbow.
I had not seen him approach,
and the sudden appearance made me start.
He was a slim man,
with a short brown beard
and small,
gimlety blue eyes.
I recognized him
as the occupant
of a flat
on the top floor,
with whom I had passed the time
of day
on the stairs.
, , , , ,
‘Can I speak
to you?’
he said.
‘May I come
in
for a minute?’
He was steadying his voice
with an effort,
and his hand was pawing my arm.
, , , , ,
I got my door open
and motioned him in.
No sooner was he
over the threshold
than he made a dash
for my back room,
where I used
to smoke
and write my letters.
Then he bolted back.
, , , , ,
‘Is the door locked?’
he asked feverishly,
and he fastened the chain
with his own hand.
, , , , ,
‘I’m very sorry,’
he said humbly.
‘It’s a mighty liberty,
but you looked the kind
of man
who
would understand.
I’ve had you
in my mind all this week
when things got troublesome.
Say,
will you do me a good turn?’
, , , , ,
‘I’ll listen
to you,’
I said.
‘That’s all I’ll promise.’
I was getting worried
by the antics
of this nervous little chap.
, , , , ,
There was a tray
of drinks
on a table beside him,
from
which he filled himself a stiff whisky-and-soda.
He drank it off
in three gulps,
and cracked the glass
as he set it down.
, , , , ,
‘Pardon,’
he said,
‘I’m a bit rattled tonight.
You see,
I happen
at this moment
to be dead.’
, , , , ,
I sat down
in an armchair
and lit my pipe.
, , , , ,
‘What does it feel like?’
I asked.
I was pretty certain
that I had
to deal
with a madman.
, , , , ,
A smile flickered
over his drawn face.
‘I’m not mad
--yet.
Say,
Sir,
I’ve been watching you,
and I reckon you’re a cool customer.
I reckon,
too,
you’re an honest man,
and not afraid
of playing a bold hand.
I’m going
to confide
in you.
I need help worse
than any man ever needed it,
and I want
to know
if I
can count you in.’
, , , , ,
‘Get
on
with your yarn,’
I said,
‘and I’ll tell you.’
, , , , ,
He seemed
to brace himself
for a great effort,
and
then started
on the queerest rigmarole.
I didn’t get hold
of it
at first,
and I had
to stop
and ask him questions.
But here is the gist
of it:
He was an American,
from Kentucky,
and after college,
being pretty well off,
he had started out
to see the world.
He wrote a bit,
and acted
as war correspondent
for a Chicago paper,
and spent a year
or two
in South-Eastern Europe.
I gathered
that he was a fine linguist,
and had got
to know pretty well the society
in those parts.
He spoke familiarly
of many names
that I remembered
to have seen
in the newspapers.
, , , , ,
He had played about
with politics,
he told me,
at first
for the interest
of them,
and
then
because he couldn’t help himself.
I read him
as a sharp,
restless fellow,
who always wanted
to get down
to the roots
of things.
He got a little further down
than he wanted.
, , , , ,
I am giving you
what he told me
as well
as I
could make it out.
Away
behind all the Governments
and the armies
there was a big subterranean movement going on,
engineered
by very dangerous people.
He had come
on it
by accident;
it fascinated him;
he went further,
and
then he got caught.
I gathered
that most
of the people
in it were the sort
of educated anarchists
that make revolutions,
but
that beside them
there were financiers
who were playing
for money.
A clever man
can make big profits
on a falling market,
and it suited the book
of both classes
to set Europe
by the ears.
, , , , ,
He told me some queer things
that explained a lot
that had puzzled me
--things
that happened
in the Balkan War,
how one state suddenly came out
on top,
why alliances were made
and broken,
why certain men disappeared,
and
where the sinews
of war came from.
The aim
of the whole conspiracy was
to get Russia
and Germany
at loggerheads.
, , , , ,
When I asked why,
he said
that the anarchist lot thought it
would give them their chance.
Everything
would be
in the melting-pot,
and they looked
to see a new world emerge.
The capitalists
would rake
in the shekels,
and make fortunes
by buying up wreckage.
Capital,
he said,
had no conscience
and no fatherland.
Besides,
the Jew was
behind it,
and the Jew hated Russia worse
than hell.
, , , , ,
‘Do you wonder?’
he cried.
‘For three hundred years they have been persecuted,
and this is the return match
for the pogroms.
The Jew is everywhere,
but you have
to go far down the backstairs
to find him.
Take any big Teutonic business concern.
If you have dealings
with it the first man you meet is Prince von und Zu Something,
an elegant young man
who talks Eton-and-Harrow English.
But he cuts no ice.
If your business is big,
you get
behind him
and find a prognathous Westphalian
with a retreating brow
and the manners
of a hog.
He is the German business man
that gives your English papers the shakes.
But
if you’re
on the biggest kind
of job
and are bound
to get
to the real boss,
ten
to one you are brought up
against a little white-faced Jew
in a bath-chair
with an eye
like a rattlesnake.
Yes,
Sir,
he is the man
who is ruling the world just now,
and he has his knife
in the Empire
of the Tzar,
because his aunt was outraged
and his father flogged
in some one-horse location
on the Volga.’
, , , , ,
I
could not help saying
that his Jew-anarchists seemed
to have got left
behind a little.
, , , , ,
‘Yes
and no,’
he said.
‘They won up
to a point,
but they struck a bigger thing
than money,
a thing
that couldn’t be bought,
the old elemental fighting instincts
of man.
If you’re going
to be killed you invent some kind
of flag
and country
to fight for,
and
if you survive you get
to love the thing.
Those foolish devils
of soldiers have found something they care for,
and
that has upset the pretty plan laid
in Berlin
and Vienna.
But my friends haven’t played their last card
by a long sight.
They’ve gotten the ace up their sleeves,
and
unless I
can keep alive
for a month they are going
to play it
and win.’
, , , , ,
‘But I thought you were dead,’
I put in.
, , , , ,
‘MORS JANUA VITAE,’
he smiled.
(I recognized the quotation:
it was
about all the Latin I knew.)
‘I’m coming
to that,
but I’ve got
to put you wise
about a lot
of things first.
If you read your newspaper,
I guess you know the name
of Constantine Karolides?’
, , , , ,
I sat up
at that,
for I had been reading
about him
that very afternoon.
, , , , ,
‘He is the man
that has wrecked all their games.
He is the one big brain
in the whole show,
and he happens also
to be an honest man.
Therefore he has been marked down these twelve months past.
I found
that out
--not
that it was difficult,
for any fool
could guess
as much.
But I found out the way they were going
to get him,
and
that knowledge was deadly.
That’s
why I have had
to decease.’
, , , , ,
He had another drink,
and I mixed it
for him myself,
for I was getting interested
in the beggar.
, , , , ,
‘They can’t get him
in his own land,
for he has a bodyguard
of Epirotes
that
would skin their grandmothers.
But
on the 15th day
of June he is coming
to this city.
The British Foreign Office has taken
to having International tea-parties,
and the biggest
of them is due
on
that date.
Now Karolides is reckoned the principal guest,
and
if my friends have their way he
will never return
to his admiring countrymen.’
, , , , ,
‘That’s simple enough,
anyhow,’
I said.
‘You
can warn him
and keep him
at home.’
, , , , ,
‘And play their game?’
he asked sharply.
‘If he does not come they win,
for he’s the only man that
can straighten out the tangle.
And
if his Government are warned he
won’t come,
for he does not know
how big the stakes
will be
on June the 15th.’
, , , , ,
‘What
about the British Government?’
I said.
‘They’re not going
to let their guests be murdered.
Tip them the wink,
and they’ll take extra precautions.’
, , , , ,
‘No good.
They might stuff your city
with plain-clothes detectives
and double the police
and Constantine
would still be a doomed man.
My friends are not playing this game
for candy.
They want a big occasion
for the taking off,
with the eyes
of all Europe
on it.
He’ll be murdered
by an Austrian,
and there’ll be plenty
of evidence
to show the connivance
of the big folk
in Vienna
and Berlin.
It
will all be an infernal lie,
of course,
but the case
will look black enough
to the world.
I’m not talking hot air,
my friend.
I happen
to know every detail
of the hellish contrivance,
and I
can tell you it
will be the most finished piece
of blackguardism
since the Borgias.
But it’s not going
to come off
if there’s a certain man
who knows the wheels
of the business alive right here
in London
on the 15th day
of June.
And
that man is going
to be your servant,
Franklin P. Scudder.’
, , , , ,
I was getting
to
like the little chap.
His jaw had shut
like a rat-trap,
and
there was the fire
of battle
in his gimlety eyes.
If he was spinning me a yarn he
could act up
to it.
, , , , ,
‘Where did you find out this story?’
I asked.
, , , , ,
‘I got the first hint
in an inn
on the Achensee
in Tyrol.
That set me inquiring,
and I collected my other clues
in a fur-shop
in the Galician quarter
of Buda,
in a Strangers’ Club
in Vienna,
and
in a little bookshop off the Racknitzstrasse
in Leipsic.
I completed my evidence ten days ago
in Paris.
I can’t tell you the details now,
for it’s something
of a history.
When I was quite sure
in my own mind I judged it my business
to disappear,
and I reached this city
by a mighty queer circuit.
I left Paris a dandified young French-American,
and I sailed
from Hamburg a Jew diamond merchant.
In Norway I was an English student
of Ibsen collecting materials
for lectures,
but
when I left Bergen I was a cinema-man
with special ski films.
And I came here
from Leith
with a lot
of pulp-wood propositions
in my pocket
to put
before the London newspapers.
Till yesterday I thought I had muddied my trail some,
and was feeling pretty happy.
Then ...’
, , , , ,
The recollection seemed
to upset him,
and he gulped down some more whisky.
, , , , ,
‘Then I saw a man standing
in the street outside this block.
I used
to stay close
in my room all day,
and only slip out after dark
for an hour
or two.
I watched him
for a bit
from my window,
and I thought I recognized him ...
He came
in
and spoke
to the porter ...
When I came back
from my walk last night I found a card
in my letter-box.
It bore the name
of the man I want least
to meet
on God’s earth.’
, , , , ,
I think
that the look
in my companion’s eyes,
the sheer naked scare
on his face,
completed my conviction
of his honesty.
My own voice sharpened a bit
as I asked him
what he did next.
, , , , ,
‘I realized
that I was bottled
as sure
as a pickled herring,
and
that
there was only one way out.
I had
to die.
If my pursuers knew I was dead they
would go
to sleep again.’
, , , , ,
‘How did you manage it?’
, , , , ,
‘I told the man
that valets me
that I was feeling pretty bad,
and I got myself up
to look
like death.
That wasn’t difficult,
for I’m no slouch
at disguises.
Then I got a corpse
--you
can always get a body
in London
if you know where
to go
for it.
I fetched it back
in a trunk
on the top
of a four-wheeler,
and I had
to be assisted upstairs
to my room.
You see I had
to pile up some evidence
for the inquest.
I went
to bed
and got my man
to mix me a sleeping-draught,
and
then told him
to clear out.
He wanted
to fetch a doctor,
but I swore some
and said I couldn’t abide leeches.
When I was left alone I started
in
to fake up
that corpse.
He was my size,
and I judged had perished
from too much alcohol,
so I put some spirits handy
about the place.
The jaw was the weak point
in the likeness,
so I blew it away
with a revolver.
I daresay there
will be somebody tomorrow
to swear
to having heard a shot,
but
there are no neighbours
on my floor,
and I guessed I
could risk it.
So I left the body
in bed dressed up
in my pyjamas,
with a revolver lying
on the bed-clothes
and a considerable mess around.
Then I got
into a suit
of clothes I had kept waiting
for emergencies.
I didn’t dare
to shave
for fear
of leaving tracks,
and besides,
it wasn’t any kind
of use my trying
to get
into the streets.
I had had you
in my mind all day,
and
there seemed nothing
to do but
to make an appeal
to you.
I watched
from my window
till I saw you come home,
and
then slipped down the stair
to meet you ...
There,
Sir,
I guess you know about
as much
as me
of this business.’
, , , , ,
He sat blinking
like an owl,
fluttering
with nerves
and yet desperately determined.
By this time I was pretty well convinced
that he was going straight
with me.
It was the wildest sort
of narrative,
but I had heard
in my time many steep tales
which had turned out
to be true,
and I had made a practice
of judging the man rather
than the story.
If he had wanted
to get a location
in my flat,
and
then cut my throat,
he
would have pitched a milder yarn.
, , , , ,
‘Hand me your key,’
I said,
‘and I’ll take a look
at the corpse.
Excuse my caution,
but I’m bound
to verify a bit
if I can.’
, , , , ,
He shook his head mournfully.
‘I reckoned you’d ask
for that,
but I haven’t got it.
It’s
on my chain
on the dressing-table.
I had
to leave it behind,
for I couldn’t leave any clues
to breed suspicions.
The gentry
who are after me are pretty bright-eyed citizens.
You’ll have
to take me
on trust
for the night,
and tomorrow you’ll get proof
of the corpse business right enough.’
, , , , ,
I thought
for an instant
or two.
‘Right.
I’ll trust you
for the night.
I’ll lock you
into this room
and keep the key.
Just one word,
Mr Scudder.
I believe you’re straight,
but
if so be you are not I
should warn you
that I’m a handy man
with a gun.’
, , , , ,
‘Sure,’
he said,
jumping up
with some briskness.
‘I haven’t the privilege
of your name,
Sir,
but let me tell you
that you’re a white man.
I’ll thank you
to lend me a razor.’
, , , , ,
I took him
into my bedroom
and turned him loose.
In half an hour’s time a figure came out
that I scarcely recognized.
Only his gimlety,
hungry eyes were the same.
He was shaved clean,
his hair was parted
in the middle,
and he had cut his eyebrows.
Further,
he carried himself
as
if he had been drilled,
and was the very model,
even
to the brown complexion,
of some British officer
who had had a long spell
in India.
He had a monocle,
too,
which he stuck
in his eye,
and every trace
of the American had gone out
of his speech.
, , , , ,
‘My hat!
Mr Scudder
--’ I stammered.
, , , , ,
‘Not Mr Scudder,’
he corrected;
‘Captain Theophilus Digby,
of the 40th Gurkhas,
presently home
on leave.
I’ll thank you
to remember that,
Sir.’
, , , , ,
I made him up a bed
in my smoking-room
and sought my own couch,
more cheerful
than I had been
for the past month.
Things did happen occasionally,
even
in this God-forgotten metropolis.
, , , , ,
I woke next morning
to hear my man,
Paddock,
making the deuce
of a row
at the smoking-room door.
Paddock was a fellow I had done a good turn
to out
on the Selakwe,
and I had inspanned him
as my servant
as soon
as I got
to England.
He had about
as much gift
of the gab
as a hippopotamus,
and was not a great hand
at valeting,
but I knew I
could count
on his loyalty.
, , , , ,
‘Stop
that row,
Paddock,’
I said.
‘There’s a friend
of mine,
Captain
--Captain’
(I couldn’t remember the name)
‘dossing down
in there.
Get breakfast
for two
and
then come
and speak
to me.’
, , , , ,
I told Paddock a fine story about
how my friend was a great swell,
with his nerves pretty bad
from overwork,
who wanted absolute rest
and stillness.
Nobody had got
to know he was here,
or he
would be besieged
by communications
from the India Office
and the Prime Minister
and his cure
would be ruined.
I am bound
to say Scudder played up splendidly
when he came
to breakfast.
He fixed Paddock
with his eyeglass,
just
like a British officer,
asked him
about the Boer War,
and slung out
at me a lot
of stuff
about imaginary pals.
Paddock couldn’t learn
to call me ‘Sir’,
but he ‘sirred’ Scudder
as
if his life depended
on it.
, , , , ,
I left him
with the newspaper
and a box
of cigars,
and went down
to the City
till luncheon.
When I got back the lift-man had an important face.
, , , , ,
‘Nawsty business ‘ere this morning,
Sir.
Gent
in No. 15 been
and shot ‘isself.
They’ve just took ‘im
to the mortiary.
The police are up
there now.’
, , , , ,
I ascended
to No. 15,
and found a couple
of bobbies
and an inspector busy making an examination.
I asked a few idiotic questions,
and they soon kicked me out.
Then I found the man
that had valeted Scudder,
and pumped him,
but I
could see he suspected nothing.
He was a whining fellow
with a churchyard face,
and half-a-crown went far
to console him.
, , , , ,
I attended the inquest next day.
A partner
of some publishing firm gave evidence
that the deceased had brought him wood-pulp propositions,
and had been,
he believed,
an agent
of an American business.
The jury found it a case
of suicide while
of unsound mind,
and the few effects were handed over
to the American Consul
to deal with.
I gave Scudder a full account
of the affair,
and it interested him greatly.
He said he wished he
could have attended the inquest,
for he reckoned it
would be about
as spicy as
to read one’s own obituary notice.
, , , , ,
The first two days he stayed
with me
in
that back room he was very peaceful.
He read
and smoked a bit,
and made a heap
of jottings
in a note-book,
and every night we had a game
of chess,
at
which he beat me hollow.
I think he was nursing his nerves back
to health,
for he had had a pretty
trying time.
But
on the third day I
could see he was beginning
to get restless.
He fixed up a list
of the days
till June 15th,
and ticked each off
with a red pencil,
making remarks
in shorthand
against them.
I
would find him sunk
in a brown study,
with his sharp eyes abstracted,
and after those spells
of meditation he was apt
to be very despondent.
, , , , ,
Then I
could see
that he began
to get edgy again.
He listened
for little noises,
and was always asking me
if Paddock
could be trusted.
Once
or twice he got very peevish,
and apologized
for it.
I didn’t blame him.
I made every allowance,
for he had taken
on a fairly stiff job.
, , , , ,
It was not the safety
of his own skin
that troubled him,
but the success
of the scheme he had planned.
That little man was clean grit all through,
without a soft spot
in him.
One night he was very solemn.
, , , , ,
‘Say,
Hannay,’
he said,
‘I judge I
should let you a bit deeper
into this business.
I
should hate
to go out without leaving somebody else
to put up a fight.’
And he began
to tell me
in detail
what I had only heard
from him vaguely.
, , , , ,
I did not give him very close attention.
The fact is,
I was more interested
in his own adventures than
in his high politics.
I reckoned
that Karolides
and his affairs were not my business,
leaving all that
to him.
So a lot
that he said slipped clean out
of my memory.
I remember
that he was very clear
that the danger
to Karolides
would not begin
till he had got
to London,
and
would come
from the very highest quarters,
where
there
would be no thought
of suspicion.
He mentioned the name
of a woman
--Julia Czechenyi
--as having something
to do
with the danger.
She
would be the decoy,
I gathered,
to get Karolides out
of the care
of his guards.
He talked,
too,
about a Black Stone
and a man
that lisped
in his speech,
and he described very particularly somebody
that he never referred
to without a shudder
--an old man
with a young voice
who
could hood his eyes
like a hawk.
, , , , ,
He spoke a good deal
about death,
too.
He was mortally anxious
about winning through
with his job,
but he didn’t care a rush
for his life.
, , , , ,
‘I reckon it’s
like going
to sleep
when you are pretty well tired out,
and waking
to find a summer day
with the scent
of hay coming
in
at the window.
I used
to thank God
for such mornings way back
in the Blue-Grass country,
and I guess I’ll thank Him
when I wake up
on the other side
of Jordan.’
, , , , ,
Next day he was much more cheerful,
and read the life
of Stonewall Jackson much
of the time.
I went out
to dinner
with a mining engineer I had got
to see
on business,
and came back
about half-past ten
in time
for our game
of chess
before turning in.
, , , , ,
I had a cigar
in my mouth,
I remember,
as I pushed open the smoking-room door.
The lights were not lit,
which struck me
as odd.
I wondered
if Scudder had turned
in already.
, , , , ,
I snapped the switch,
but
there was nobody there.
Then I saw something
in the far corner
which made me drop my cigar
and fall
into a cold sweat.
, , , , ,
My guest was lying sprawled
on his back.
There was a long knife
through his heart
which skewered him
to the floor.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER TWO
The Milkman Sets Out
on his Travels
I sat down
in an armchair
and felt very sick.
That lasted
for maybe five minutes,
and was succeeded
by a fit
of the horrors.
The poor staring white face
on the floor was more
than I
could bear,
and I managed
to get a table-cloth
and cover it.
Then I staggered
to a cupboard,
found the brandy
and swallowed several mouthfuls.
I had seen men die violently before;
indeed I had killed a few myself
in the Matabele War;
but this cold-blooded indoor business was different.
Still I managed
to pull myself together.
I looked
at my watch,
and saw
that it was half-past ten.
, , , , ,
An idea seized me,
and I went
over the flat
with a small-tooth comb.
There was nobody there,
nor any trace
of anybody,
but I shuttered
and bolted all the windows
and put the chain
on the door.
By this time my wits were coming back
to me,
and I
could think again.
It took me
about an hour
to figure the thing out,
and I did not hurry,
for,
unless the murderer came back,
I had till
about six o’clock
in the morning
for my cogitations.
, , , , ,
I was
in the soup
--that was pretty clear.
Any shadow
of a doubt I might have had
about the truth
of Scudder’s tale was now gone.
The proof
of it was lying
under the table-cloth.
The men
who knew
that he knew
what he knew had found him,
and had taken the best way
to make certain
of his silence.
Yes;
but he had been
in my rooms four days,
and his enemies must have reckoned
that he had confided
in me.
So I
would be the next
to go.
It might be
that very night,
or next day,
or the day after,
but my number was up all right.
, , , , ,
Then suddenly I thought
of another probability.
Supposing I went out now
and called
in the police,
or went
to bed
and let Paddock find the body
and call them
in the morning.
What kind
of a story was I
to tell
about Scudder?
I had lied
to Paddock
about him,
and the whole thing looked desperately fishy.
If I made a clean breast
of it
and told the police everything he had told me,
they
would simply laugh
at me.
The odds were a thousand
to one
that I
would be charged
with the murder,
and the circumstantial evidence was strong enough
to hang me.
Few people knew me
in England;
I had no real pal
who
could come forward
and swear
to my character.
Perhaps
that was
what those secret enemies were playing for.
They were clever enough
for anything,
and an English prison was
as good a way
of getting rid
of me
till after June 15th
as a knife
in my chest.
, , , , ,
Besides,
if I told the whole story,
and
by any miracle was believed,
I
would be playing their game.
Karolides
would stay
at home,
which was
what they wanted.
Somehow
or other the sight
of Scudder’s dead face had made me a passionate believer
in his scheme.
He was gone,
but he had taken me
into his confidence,
and I was pretty well bound
to carry
on his work.
, , , , ,
You may think this ridiculous
for a man
in danger
of his life,
but
that was the way I looked
at it.
I am an ordinary sort
of fellow,
not braver
than other people,
but I hate
to see a good man downed,
and
that long knife
would not be the end
of Scudder
if I
could play the game
in his place.
, , , , ,
It took me an hour
or two
to think this out,
and
by
that time I had come
to a decision.
I must vanish somehow,
and keep vanished
till the end
of the second week
in June.
Then I must somehow find a way
to get
in touch
with the Government people
and tell them
what Scudder had told me.
I wished
to Heaven he had told me more,
and
that I had listened more carefully
to the little he had told me.
I knew nothing
but the barest facts.
There was a big risk that,
even
if I weathered the other dangers,
I
would not be believed
in the end.
I must take my chance
of that,
and hope
that something might happen
which
would confirm my tale
in the eyes
of the Government.
, , , , ,
My first job was
to keep going
for the next three weeks.
It was now the 24th day
of May,
and
that meant twenty days
of hiding
before I
could venture
to approach the powers
that be.
I reckoned
that two sets
of people
would be looking
for me
--Scudder’s enemies
to put me out
of existence,
and the police,
who
would want me
for Scudder’s murder.
It was going
to be a giddy hunt,
and it was queer
how the prospect comforted me.
I had been slack so long
that
almost any chance
of activity was welcome.
When I had
to sit alone
with
that corpse
and wait
on Fortune I was no better
than a crushed worm,
but
if my neck’s safety was
to hang
on my own wits I was prepared
to be cheerful
about it.
, , , , ,
My next thought was whether Scudder had any papers
about him
to give me a better clue
to the business.
I drew back the table-cloth
and searched his pockets,
for I had no longer any shrinking
from the body.
The face was wonderfully calm
for a man
who had been struck down
in a moment.
There was nothing
in the breast-pocket,
and only a few loose coins
and a cigar-holder
in the waistcoat.
The trousers held a little penknife
and some silver,
and the side pocket
of his jacket contained an old crocodile-skin cigar-case.
There was no sign
of the little black book
in
which I had seen him making notes.
That had no doubt been taken
by his murderer.
, , , , ,
But
as I looked up
from my task I saw
that some drawers had been pulled out
in the writing-table.
Scudder
would never have left them
in
that state,
for he was the tidiest
of mortals.
Someone must have been searching
for something
--perhaps
for the pocket-book.
, , , , ,
I went round the flat
and found
that everything had been ransacked
--the inside
of books,
drawers,
cupboards,
boxes,
even the pockets
of the clothes
in my wardrobe,
and the sideboard
in the dining-room.
There was no trace
of the book.
Most likely the enemy had found it,
but they had not found it
on Scudder’s body.
, , , , ,
Then I got out an atlas
and looked
at a big map
of the British Isles.
My notion was
to get off
to some wild district,
where my veldcraft
would be
of some use
to me,
for I
would be
like a trapped rat
in a city.
I considered
that Scotland
would be best,
for my people were Scotch
and I
could pass anywhere
as an ordinary Scotsman.
I had half an idea
at first
to be a German tourist,
for my father had had German partners,
and I had been brought up
to speak the tongue pretty fluently,
not
to mention having put
in three years prospecting
for copper
in German Damaraland.
But I calculated
that it
would be less conspicuous
to be a Scot,
and less
in a line
with
what the police might know
of my past.
I fixed
on Galloway
as the best place
to go.
It was the nearest wild part
of Scotland,
so far
as I
could figure it out,
and
from the look
of the map was not
over thick
with population.
, , , , ,
A search
in Bradshaw informed me
that a train left St Pancras
at 7.10,
which
would land me
at any Galloway station
in the late afternoon.
That was well enough,
but a more important matter was
how I was
to make my way
to St Pancras,
for I was pretty certain
that Scudder’s friends
would be watching outside.
This puzzled me
for a bit;
then I had an inspiration,
on
which I went
to bed
and slept
for two troubled hours.
, , , , ,
I got up
at four
and opened my bedroom shutters.
The faint light
of a fine summer morning was flooding the skies,
and the sparrows had begun
to chatter.
I had a great revulsion
of feeling,
and felt a God-forgotten fool.
My inclination was
to let things slide,
and trust
to the British police taking a reasonable view
of my case.
But
as I reviewed the situation I
could find no arguments
to bring
against my decision
of the previous night,
so
with a wry mouth I resolved
to go
on
with my plan.
I was not feeling
in any particular funk;
only disinclined
to go looking
for trouble,
if you understand me.
, , , , ,
I hunted out a well-used tweed suit,
a pair
of strong nailed boots,
and a flannel shirt
with a collar.
Into my pockets I stuffed a spare shirt,
a cloth cap,
some handkerchiefs,
and a tooth-brush.
I had drawn a good sum
in gold
from the bank two days before,
in case Scudder
should want money,
and I took fifty pounds
of it
in sovereigns
in a belt
which I had brought back
from Rhodesia.
That was
about all I wanted.
Then I had a bath,
and cut my moustache,
which was long
and drooping,
into a short stubbly fringe.
, , , , ,
Now came the next step.
Paddock used
to arrive punctually
at 7.30
and let himself
in
with a latch-key.
But
about twenty minutes
to seven,
as I knew
from bitter experience,
the milkman turned up
with a great clatter
of cans,
and deposited my share outside my door.
I had seen
that milkman sometimes
when I had gone out
for an early ride.
He was a young man
about my own height,
with an ill-nourished moustache,
and he wore a white overall.
On him I staked all my chances.
, , , , ,
I went
into the darkened smoking-room
where the rays
of morning light were beginning
to creep
through the shutters.
There I breakfasted off a whisky-and-soda
and some biscuits
from the cupboard.
By this time it was getting
on
for six o’clock.
I put a pipe
in my pocket
and filled my pouch
from the tobacco jar
on the table
by the fireplace.
, , , , ,
As I poked
into the tobacco my fingers touched something hard,
and I drew out Scudder’s little black pocket-book ...
, , , , ,
That seemed
to me a good omen.
I lifted the cloth
from the body
and was amazed
at the peace
and dignity
of the dead face.
‘Goodbye,
old chap,’
I said;
‘I am going
to do my best
for you.
Wish me well,
wherever you are.’
, , , , ,
Then I hung about
in the hall waiting
for the milkman.
That was the worst part
of the business,
for I was fairly choking
to get out
of doors.
Six-thirty passed,
then six-forty,
but still he did not come.
The fool had chosen this day
of all days
to be late.
, , , , ,
At one minute after the quarter
to seven I heard the rattle
of the cans outside.
I opened the front door,
and
there was my man,
singling out my cans
from a bunch he carried
and whistling
through his teeth.
He jumped a bit
at the sight
of me.
, , , , ,
‘Come
in here a moment,’
I said.
‘I want a word
with you.’
And I led him
into the dining-room.
, , , , ,
‘I reckon you’re a bit
of a sportsman,’
I said,
‘and I want you
to do me a service.
Lend me your cap
and overall
for ten minutes,
and here’s a sovereign
for you.’
, , , , ,
His eyes opened
at the sight
of the gold,
and he grinned broadly.
‘Wot’s the gyme?’he asked.
, , , , ,
‘A bet,’
I said.
‘I haven’t time
to explain,
but
to win it I’ve got
to be a milkman
for the next ten minutes.
All you’ve got
to do is
to stay here
till I come back.
You’ll be a bit late,
but nobody
will complain,
and you’ll have
that quid
for yourself.’
, , , , ,
‘Right-o!’ he said cheerily.
‘I ain’t the man
to spoil a bit
of sport.
‘Ere’s the rig,
guv’nor.’
, , , , ,
I stuck
on his flat blue hat
and his white overall,
picked up the cans,
banged my door,
and went whistling downstairs.
The porter
at the foot told me
to shut my jaw,
which sounded
as
if my make-up was adequate.
, , , , ,
At first I thought
there was nobody
in the street.
Then I caught sight
of a policeman a hundred yards down,
and a loafer shuffling past
on the other side.
Some impulse made me raise my eyes
to the house opposite,
and there
at a first-floor window was a face.
As the loafer passed he looked up,
and I fancied a signal was exchanged.
, , , , ,
I crossed the street,
whistling gaily
and imitating the jaunty swing
of the milkman.
Then I took the first side street,
and went up a left-hand turning
which led past a bit
of vacant ground.
There was no one
in the little street,
so I dropped the milk-cans inside the hoarding
and sent the cap
and overall after them.
I had only just put
on my cloth cap
when a postman came round the corner.
I gave him good morning
and he answered me unsuspiciously.
At the moment the clock
of a neighbouring church struck the hour
of seven.
, , , , ,
There was not a second
to spare.
As soon
as I got
to Euston Road I took
to my heels
and ran.
The clock
at Euston Station showed five minutes past the hour.
At St Pancras I had no time
to take a ticket,
let alone
that I had not settled upon my destination.
A porter told me the platform,
and
as I entered it I saw the train already
in motion.
Two station officials blocked the way,
but I dodged them
and clambered
into the last carriage.
, , , , ,
Three minutes later,
as we were roaring
through the northern tunnels,
an irate guard interviewed me.
He wrote out
for me a ticket
to Newton-Stewart,
a name
which had suddenly come back
to my memory,
and he conducted me
from the first-class compartment
where I had ensconced myself
to a third-class smoker,
occupied
by a sailor
and a stout woman
with a child.
He went off grumbling,
and
as I mopped my brow I observed
to my companions
in my broadest Scots
that it was a sore job catching trains.
I had already entered upon my part.
, , , , ,
‘The impidence o’
that gyaird!’ said the lady bitterly.
‘He needit a Scotch tongue
to pit him
in his place.
He was complainin’ o’ this wean no haein’ a ticket
and her no fower
till August twalmonth,
and he was objectin’
to this gentleman spittin’.’
, , , , ,
The sailor morosely agreed,
and I started my new life
in an atmosphere
of protest
against authority.
I reminded myself
that a week ago I had been finding the world dull.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER THREE
The Adventure
of the Literary Innkeeper
I had a solemn time travelling north
that day.
It was fine May weather,
with the hawthorn flowering
on every hedge,
and I asked myself why,
when I was still a free man,
I had stayed on
in London
and not got the good
of this heavenly country.
I didn’t dare face the restaurant car,
but I got a luncheon-basket
at Leeds
and shared it
with the fat woman.
Also I got the morning’s papers,
with news
about starters
for the Derby
and the beginning
of the cricket season,
and some paragraphs about
how Balkan affairs were settling down
and a British squadron was going
to Kiel.
, , , , ,
When I had done
with them I got out Scudder’s little black pocket-book
and studied it.
It was pretty well filled
with jottings,
chiefly figures,
though now
and
then a name was printed in.
For example,
I found the words ‘Hofgaard’,
‘Luneville’,
and ‘Avocado’ pretty often,
and especially the word ‘Pavia’.
, , , , ,
Now I was certain
that Scudder never did anything without a reason,
and I was pretty sure
that
there was a cypher
in all this.
That is a subject
which has always interested me,
and I did a bit
at it myself once
as intelligence officer
at Delagoa Bay during the Boer War.
I have a head
for things
like chess
and puzzles,
and I used
to reckon myself pretty good
at finding out cyphers.
This one looked
like the numerical kind
where sets
of figures correspond
to the letters
of the alphabet,
but any fairly shrewd man
can find the clue
to
that sort after an hour
or two’s work,
and I didn’t think Scudder
would have been content
with anything so easy.
So I fastened
on the printed words,
for you
can make a pretty good numerical cypher
if you have a key word
which gives you the sequence
of the letters.
, , , , ,
I tried
for hours,
but none
of the words answered.
Then I fell asleep
and woke
at Dumfries just
in time
to bundle out
and get
into the slow Galloway train.
There was a man
on the platform whose looks I didn’t like,
but he never glanced
at me,
and
when I caught sight
of myself
in the mirror
of an automatic machine I didn’t wonder.
With my brown face,
my old tweeds,
and my slouch,
I was the very model
of one
of the hill farmers
who were crowding
into the third-class carriages.
, , , , ,
I travelled
with half a dozen
in an atmosphere
of shag
and clay pipes.
They had come
from the weekly market,
and their mouths were full
of prices.
I heard accounts
of
how the lambing had gone up the Cairn
and the Deuch
and a dozen other mysterious waters.
Above half the men had lunched heavily
and were highly flavoured
with whisky,
but they took no notice
of me.
We rumbled slowly
into a land
of little wooded glens
and then
to a great wide moorland place,
gleaming
with lochs,
with high blue hills showing northwards.
, , , , ,
About five o’clock the carriage had emptied,
and I was left alone
as I had hoped.
I got out
at the next station,
a little place whose name I scarcely noted,
set right
in the heart
of a bog.
It reminded me
of one
of those forgotten little stations
in the Karroo.
An old station-master was digging
in his garden,
and
with his spade
over his shoulder sauntered
to the train,
took charge
of a parcel,
and went back
to his potatoes.
A child
of ten received my ticket,
and I emerged
on a white road
that straggled
over the brown moor.
, , , , ,
It was a gorgeous spring evening,
with every hill showing
as clear
as a cut amethyst.
The air had the queer,
rooty smell
of bogs,
but it was
as fresh
as mid-ocean,
and it had the strangest effect
on my spirits.
I actually felt light-hearted.
I might have been a boy out
for a spring holiday tramp,
instead
of a man
of thirty-seven very much wanted
by the police.
I felt just
as I used
to feel
when I was starting
for a big trek
on a frosty morning
on the high veld.
If you believe me,
I swung along
that road whistling.
There was no plan
of campaign
in my head,
only just
to go
on
and on
in this blessed,
honest-smelling hill country,
for every mile put me
in better humour
with myself.
, , , , ,
In a roadside planting I cut a walking-stick
of hazel,
and presently struck off the highway up a bypath
which followed the glen
of a brawling stream.
I reckoned
that I was still far ahead
of any pursuit,
and
for
that night might please myself.
It was some hours
since I had tasted food,
and I was getting very hungry
when I came
to a herd’s cottage set
in a nook beside a waterfall.
A brown-faced woman was standing
by the door,
and greeted me
with the kindly shyness
of moorland places.
When I asked
for a night’s lodging she said I was welcome
to the ‘bed
in the loft’,
and very soon she set
before me a hearty meal
of ham
and eggs,
scones,
and thick sweet milk.
, , , , ,
At the darkening her man came
in
from the hills,
a lean giant,
who
in one step covered
as much ground
as three paces
of ordinary mortals.
They asked me no questions,
for they had the perfect breeding
of all dwellers
in the wilds,
but I
could see they set me down
as a kind
of dealer,
and I took some trouble
to confirm their view.
I spoke a lot
about cattle,
of
which my host knew little,
and I picked up
from him a good deal
about the local Galloway markets,
which I tucked away
in my memory
for future use.
At ten I was nodding
in my chair,
and the ‘bed
in the loft’ received a weary man
who never opened his eyes
till five o’clock set the little homestead a-going once more.
, , , , ,
They refused any payment,
and
by six I had breakfasted
and was striding southwards again.
My notion was
to return
to the railway line a station
or two farther
on
than the place
where I had alighted yesterday and
to double back.
I reckoned
that that was the safest way,
for the police
would naturally assume
that I was always making farther
from London
in the direction
of some western port.
I thought I had still a good bit
of a start,
for,
as I reasoned,
it
would take some hours
to fix the blame
on me,
and several more
to identify the fellow
who got
on board the train
at St Pancras.
, , , , ,
It was the same jolly,
clear spring weather,
and I simply
could not contrive
to feel careworn.
Indeed I was
in better spirits
than I had been
for months.
Over a long ridge
of moorland I took my road,
skirting the side
of a high hill
which the herd had called Cairnsmore
of Fleet.
Nesting curlews
and plovers were crying everywhere,
and the links
of green pasture
by the streams were dotted
with young lambs.
All the slackness
of the past months was slipping
from my bones,
and I stepped out
like a four-year-old.
By-and-by I came
to a swell
of moorland
which dipped
to the vale
of a little river,
and a mile away
in the heather I saw the smoke
of a train.
, , , , ,
The station,
when I reached it,
proved
to be ideal
for my purpose.
The moor surged up
around it
and left room only
for the single line,
the slender siding,
a waiting-room,
an office,
the station-master’s cottage,
and a tiny yard
of gooseberries
and sweet-william.
There seemed no road
to it
from anywhere,
and
to increase the desolation the waves
of a tarn lapped
on their grey granite beach half a mile away.
I waited
in the deep heather
till I saw the smoke
of an east-going train
on the horizon.
Then I approached the tiny booking-office
and took a ticket
for Dumfries.
, , , , ,
The only occupants
of the carriage were an old shepherd
and his dog
--a wall-eyed brute
that I mistrusted.
The man was asleep,
and
on the cushions beside him was
that morning’s SCOTSMAN.
Eagerly I seized
on it,
for I fancied it
would tell me something.
, , , , ,
There were two columns
about the Portland Place Murder,
as it was called.
My man Paddock had given the alarm
and had the milkman arrested.
Poor devil,
it looked
as
if the latter had earned his sovereign hardly;
but
for me he had been cheap
at the price,
for he seemed
to have occupied the police
for the better part
of the day.
In the latest news I found a further instalment
of the story.
The milkman had been released,
I read,
and the true criminal,
about whose identity the police were reticent,
was believed
to have got away
from London
by one
of the northern lines.
There was a short note
about me
as the owner
of the flat.
I guessed the police had stuck
that in,
as a clumsy contrivance
to persuade me
that I was unsuspected.
, , , , ,
There was nothing else
in the paper,
nothing
about foreign politics
or Karolides,
or the things
that had interested Scudder.
I laid it down,
and found
that we were approaching the station
at
which I had got out yesterday.
The potato-digging station-master had been gingered up
into some activity,
for the west-going train was waiting
to let us pass,
and
from it had descended three men
who were asking him questions.
I supposed
that they were the local police,
who had been stirred up
by Scotland Yard,
and had traced me
as far
as this one-horse siding.
Sitting well back
in the shadow I watched them carefully.
One
of them had a book,
and took down notes.
The old potato-digger seemed
to have turned peevish,
but the child
who had collected my ticket was talking volubly.
All the party looked out
across the moor
where the white road departed.
I hoped they were going
to take up my tracks there.
, , , , ,
As we moved away from
that station my companion woke up.
He fixed me
with a wandering glance,
kicked his dog viciously,
and inquired
where he was.
Clearly he was very drunk.
, , , , ,
‘That’s
what comes o’ bein’ a teetotaller,’
he observed
in bitter regret.
, , , , ,
I expressed my surprise that
in him I
should have met a blue-ribbon stalwart.
, , , , ,
‘Ay,
but I’m a strong teetotaller,’
he said pugnaciously.
‘I took the pledge last Martinmas,
and I havena touched a drop o’ whisky sinsyne.
Not even
at Hogmanay,
though I was sair temptit.’
, , , , ,
He swung his heels up
on the seat,
and burrowed a frowsy head
into the cushions.
, , , , ,
‘And that’s a’ I get,’
he moaned.
‘A heid better
than hell fire,
and twae een lookin’ different ways
for the Sabbath.’
, , , , ,
‘What did it?’
I asked.
, , , , ,
‘A drink they ca’ brandy.
Bein’ a teetotaller I keepit off the whisky,
but I was nip-nippin’ a’ day
at this brandy,
and I doubt I’ll no be weel
for a fortnicht.’
His voice died away
into a splutter,
and sleep once more laid its heavy hand
on him.
, , , , ,
My plan had been
to get out
at some station down the line,
but the train suddenly gave me a better chance,
for it came
to a standstill
at the end
of a culvert
which spanned a brawling porter-coloured river.
I looked out
and saw
that every carriage window was closed
and no human figure appeared
in the landscape.
So I opened the door,
and dropped quickly
into the tangle
of hazels
which edged the line.
, , , , ,
It
would have been all right
but
for
that infernal dog.
Under the impression
that I was decamping
with its master’s belongings,
it started
to bark,
and all
but got me
by the trousers.
This woke up the herd,
who stood bawling
at the carriage door
in the belief
that I had committed suicide.
I crawled
through the thicket,
reached the edge
of the stream,
and
in cover
of the bushes put a hundred yards
or so
behind me.
Then
from my shelter I peered back,
and saw the guard
and several passengers gathered round the open carriage door
and staring
in my direction.
I
could not have made a more public departure
if I had left
with a bugler
and a brass band.
, , , , ,
Happily the drunken herd provided a diversion.
He
and his dog,
which was attached
by a rope
to his waist,
suddenly cascaded out
of the carriage,
landed
on their heads
on the track,
and rolled some way down the bank
towards the water.
In the rescue
which followed the dog bit somebody,
for I
could hear the sound
of hard swearing.
Presently they had forgotten me,
and
when after a quarter
of a mile’s crawl I ventured
to look back,
the train had started again
and was vanishing
in the cutting.
, , , , ,
I was
in a wide semicircle
of moorland,
with the brown river
as radius,
and the high hills forming the northern circumference.
There was not a sign
or sound
of a human being,
only the plashing water
and the interminable crying
of curlews.
Yet,
oddly enough,
for the first time I felt the terror
of the hunted
on me.
It was not the police
that I thought of,
but the other folk,
who knew
that I knew Scudder’s secret
and dared not let me live.
I was certain
that they
would pursue me
with a keenness
and vigilance unknown
to the British law,
and
that once their grip closed
on me I
should find no mercy.
, , , , ,
I looked back,
but
there was nothing
in the landscape.
The sun glinted
on the metals
of the line
and the wet stones
in the stream,
and you
could not have found a more peaceful sight
in the world.
Nevertheless I started
to run.
Crouching low
in the runnels
of the bog,
I ran
till the sweat blinded my eyes.
The mood did not leave me
till I had reached the rim
of mountain
and flung myself panting
on a ridge high
above the young waters
of the brown river.
, , , , ,
From my vantage-ground I
could scan the whole moor right away
to the railway line and
to the south
of it
where green fields took the place
of heather.
I have eyes
like a hawk,
but I
could see nothing moving
in the whole countryside.
Then I looked east beyond the ridge
and saw a new kind
of landscape
--shallow green valleys
with plentiful fir plantations
and the faint lines
of dust
which spoke
of highroads.
Last
of all I looked
into the blue May sky,
and
there I saw
that
which set my pulses racing ...
, , , , ,
Low down
in the south a monoplane was climbing
into the heavens.
I was
as certain
as
if I had been told
that that aeroplane was looking
for me,
and
that it did not belong
to the police.
For an hour
or two I watched it
from a pit
of heather.
It flew low
along the hill-tops,
and then
in narrow circles
over the valley up
which I had come.
Then it seemed
to change its mind,
rose
to a great height,
and flew away back
to the south.
, , , , ,
I did not
like this espionage
from the air,
and I began
to think less well
of the countryside I had chosen
for a refuge.
These heather hills were no sort
of cover
if my enemies were
in the sky,
and I must find a different kind
of sanctuary.
I looked
with more satisfaction
to the green country beyond the ridge,
for
there I
should find woods
and stone houses.
, , , , ,
About six
in the evening I came out
of the moorland
to a white ribbon
of road
which wound up the narrow vale
of a lowland stream.
As I followed it,
fields gave place
to bent,
the glen became a plateau,
and presently I had reached a kind
of pass
where a solitary house smoked
in the twilight.
The road swung
over a bridge,
and leaning
on the parapet was a young man.
, , , , ,
He was smoking a long clay pipe
and studying the water
with spectacled eyes.
In his left hand was a small book
with a finger marking the place.
Slowly he repeated
--
As
when a Gryphon
through the wilderness
with winged step,
o’er hill
and moory dale Pursues the Arimaspian.
, , , , ,
He jumped round
as my step rung
on the keystone,
and I saw a pleasant sunburnt boyish face.
, , , , ,
‘Good evening
to you,’
he said gravely.
‘It’s a fine night
for the road.’
, , , , ,
The smell
of peat smoke and
of some savoury roast floated
to me
from the house.
, , , , ,
‘Is
that place an inn?’
I asked.
, , , , ,
‘At your service,’
he said politely.
‘I am the landlord,
Sir,
and I hope you
will stay the night,
for
to tell you the truth I have had no company
for a week.’
, , , , ,
I pulled myself up
on the parapet
of the bridge
and filled my pipe.
I began
to detect an ally.
, , , , ,
‘You’re young
to be an innkeeper,’
I said.
, , , , ,
‘My father died a year ago
and left me the business.
I live there
with my grandmother.
It’s a slow job
for a young man,
and it wasn’t my choice
of profession.’
, , , , ,
‘Which was?’
, , , , ,
He actually blushed.
‘I want
to write books,’
he said.
, , , , ,
‘And
what better chance
could you ask?’
I cried.
‘Man,
I’ve often thought
that an innkeeper
would make the best story-teller
in the world.’
, , , , ,
‘Not now,’
he said eagerly.
‘Maybe
in the old days
when you had pilgrims
and ballad-makers
and highwaymen
and mail-coaches
on the road.
But not now.
Nothing comes here
but motor-cars full
of fat women,
who stop
for lunch,
and a fisherman
or two
in the spring,
and the shooting tenants
in August.
There is not much material
to be got out
of that.
I want
to see life,
to travel the world,
and write things
like Kipling
and Conrad.
But the most I’ve done yet is
to get some verses printed
in CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL.’
I looked
at the inn standing golden
in the sunset
against the brown hills.
, , , , ,
‘I’ve knocked a bit
about the world,
and I wouldn’t despise such a hermitage.
D’you think
that adventure is found only
in the tropics
or
among gentry
in red shirts?
Maybe you’re rubbing shoulders
with it
at this moment.’
, , , , ,
‘That’s
what Kipling says,’
he said,
his eyes brightening,
and he quoted some verse
about ‘Romance bringing up the 9.15’.
, , , , ,
‘Here’s a true tale
for you then,’
I cried,
‘and a month
from now you
can make a novel out
of it.’
, , , , ,
Sitting
on the bridge
in the soft May gloaming I pitched him a lovely yarn.
It was true
in essentials,
too,
though I altered the minor details.
I made out
that I was a mining magnate
from Kimberley,
who had had a lot
of trouble
with I.D.B.
and had shown up a gang.
They had pursued me
across the ocean,
and had killed my best friend,
and were now
on my tracks.
, , , , ,
I told the story well,
though I say it
who shouldn’t.
I pictured a flight
across the Kalahari
to German Africa,
the crackling,
parching days,
the wonderful blue-velvet nights.
I described an attack
on my life
on the voyage home,
and I made a really horrid affair
of the Portland Place murder.
‘You’re looking
for adventure,’
I cried;
‘well,
you’ve found it here.
The devils are after me,
and the police are after them.
It’s a race
that I mean
to win.’
, , , , ,
‘By God!’ he whispered,
drawing his breath
in sharply,
‘it is all pure Rider Haggard
and Conan Doyle.’
, , , , ,
‘You believe me,’
I said gratefully.
, , , , ,
‘Of course I do,’
and he held out his hand.
‘I believe everything out
of the common.
The only thing
to distrust is the normal.’
, , , , ,
He was very young,
but he was the man
for my money.
, , , , ,
‘I think they’re off my track
for the moment,
but I must lie close
for a couple
of days.
Can you take me in?’
, , , , ,
He caught my elbow
in his eagerness
and drew me
towards the house.
‘You
can lie
as snug here
as
if you were
in a moss-hole.
I’ll see
that nobody blabs,
either.
And you’ll give me some more material
about your adventures?’
, , , , ,
As I entered the inn porch I heard
from far off the beat
of an engine.
There silhouetted
against the dusky West was my friend,
the monoplane.
, , , , ,
He gave me a room
at the back
of the house,
with a fine outlook
over the plateau,
and he made me free
of his own study,
which was stacked
with cheap editions
of his favourite authors.
I never saw the grandmother,
so I guessed she was bedridden.
An old woman called Margit brought me my meals,
and the innkeeper was
around me
at all hours.
I wanted some time
to myself,
so I invented a job
for him.
He had a motor-bicycle,
and I sent him off next morning
for the daily paper,
which usually arrived
with the post
in the late afternoon.
I told him
to keep his eyes skinned,
and make note
of any strange figures he saw,
keeping a special sharp look-out
for motors
and aeroplanes.
Then I sat down
in real earnest
to Scudder’s note-book.
, , , , ,
He came back
at midday
with the SCOTSMAN.
There was nothing
in it,
except some further evidence
of Paddock
and the milkman,
and a repetition
of yesterday’s statement
that the murderer had gone North.
But
there was a long article,
reprinted
from THE TIMES,
about Karolides
and the state
of affairs
in the Balkans,
though
there was no mention
of any visit
to England.
I got rid
of the innkeeper
for the afternoon,
for I was getting very warm
in my search
for the cypher.
, , , , ,
As I told you,
it was a numerical cypher,
and
by an elaborate system
of experiments I had pretty well discovered
what were the nulls
and stops.
The trouble was the key word,
and
when I thought
of the odd million words he might have used I felt pretty hopeless.
But
about three o’clock I had a sudden inspiration.
, , , , ,
The name Julia Czechenyi flashed
across my memory.
Scudder had said it was the key
to the Karolides business,
and it occurred
to me
to try it
on his cypher.
, , , , ,
It worked.
The five letters
of ‘Julia’ gave me the position
of the vowels.
A was J,
the tenth letter
of the alphabet,
and so represented
by X
in the cypher.
E was XXI,
and so on.
‘Czechenyi’ gave me the numerals
for the principal consonants.
I scribbled
that scheme
on a bit
of paper
and sat down
to read Scudder’s pages.
, , , , ,
In half an hour I was reading
with a whitish face
and fingers
that drummed
on the table.
, , , , ,
I glanced out
of the window
and saw a big touring-car coming up the glen
towards the inn.
It drew up
at the door,
and
there was the sound
of people alighting.
There seemed
to be two
of them,
men
in aquascutums
and tweed caps.
, , , , ,
Ten minutes later the innkeeper slipped
into the room,
his eyes bright
with excitement.
, , , , ,
‘There’s two chaps below looking
for you,’
he whispered.
‘They’re
in the dining-room having whiskies-and-sodas.
They asked
about you
and said they had hoped
to meet you here.
Oh!
and they described you jolly well,
down
to your boots
and shirt.
I told them you had been here last night
and had gone off
on a motor bicycle this morning,
and one
of the chaps swore
like a navvy.’
, , , , ,
I made him tell me
what they looked like.
One was a dark-eyed thin fellow
with bushy eyebrows,
the other was always smiling
and lisped
in his talk.
Neither was any kind
of foreigner;
on this my young friend was positive.
, , , , ,
I took a bit
of paper
and wrote these words
in German
as
if they were part
of a letter
--
...
‘Black Stone.
Scudder had got
on
to this,
but he
could not act
for a fortnight.
I doubt
if I
can do any good now,
especially
as Karolides is uncertain
about his plans.
But
if Mr T. advises I
will do the best I ...’
, , , , ,
I manufactured it rather neatly,
so
that it looked
like a loose page
of a private letter.
, , , , ,
‘Take this down
and say it was found
in my bedroom,
and ask them
to return it
to me
if they overtake me.’
, , , , ,
Three minutes later I heard the car begin
to move,
and peeping
from
behind the curtain caught sight
of the two figures.
One was slim,
the other was sleek;
that was the most I
could make
of my reconnaissance.
, , , , ,
The innkeeper appeared
in great excitement.
‘Your paper woke them up,’
he said gleefully.
‘The dark fellow went
as white
as death
and cursed
like blazes,
and the fat one whistled
and looked ugly.
They paid
for their drinks
with half-a-sovereign
and wouldn’t wait
for change.’
, , , , ,
‘Now I’ll tell you
what I want you
to do,’
I said.
‘Get
on your bicycle
and go off
to Newton-Stewart
to the Chief Constable.
Describe the two men,
and say you suspect them
of having had something
to do
with the London murder.
You
can invent reasons.
The two
will come back,
never fear.
Not tonight,
for they’ll follow me forty miles
along the road,
but first thing tomorrow morning.
Tell the police
to be here bright
and early.’
, , , , ,
He set off
like a docile child,
while I worked
at Scudder’s notes.
When he came back we dined together,
and
in common decency I had
to let him pump me.
I gave him a lot
of stuff
about lion hunts
and the Matabele War,
thinking all the while
what tame businesses these were compared
to this I was now engaged in!
When he went
to bed I sat up
and finished Scudder.
I smoked
in a chair
till daylight,
for I
could not sleep.
, , , , ,
About eight next morning I witnessed the arrival
of two constables
and a sergeant.
They put their car
in a coach-house
under the innkeeper’s instructions,
and entered the house.
Twenty minutes later I saw
from my window a second car come
across the plateau
from the opposite direction.
It did not come up
to the inn,
but stopped two hundred yards off
in the shelter
of a patch
of wood.
I noticed
that its occupants carefully reversed it
before leaving it.
A minute
or two later I heard their steps
on the gravel outside the window.
, , , , ,
My plan had been
to lie hid
in my bedroom,
and see
what happened.
I had a notion that,
if I
could bring the police
and my other more dangerous pursuers together,
something might work out
of it
to my advantage.
But now I had a better idea.
I scribbled a line
of thanks
to my host,
opened the window,
and dropped quietly
into a gooseberry bush.
Unobserved I crossed the dyke,
crawled down the side
of a tributary burn,
and won the highroad
on the far side
of the patch
of trees.
There stood the car,
very spick
and span
in the morning sunlight,
but
with the dust
on her
which told
of a long journey.
I started her,
jumped
into the chauffeur’s seat,
and stole gently out
on
to the plateau.
, , , , ,
Almost
at once the road dipped so
that I lost sight
of the inn,
but the wind seemed
to bring me the sound
of angry voices.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER FOUR
The Adventure
of the Radical Candidate
You may picture me driving
that 40 h.p.
car
for all she was worth
over the crisp moor roads
on
that shining May morning;
glancing back
at first
over my shoulder,
and looking anxiously
to the next turning;
then driving
with a vague eye,
just wide enough awake
to keep
on the highway.
For I was thinking desperately
of
what I had found
in Scudder’s pocket-book.
, , , , ,
The little man had told me a pack
of lies.
All his yarns
about the Balkans
and the Jew-Anarchists
and the Foreign Office Conference were eyewash,
and so was Karolides.
And yet not quite,
as you shall hear.
I had staked everything
on my belief
in his story,
and had been let down;
here was his book telling me a different tale,
and instead
of being once-bitten-twice-shy,
I believed it absolutely.
, , , , ,
Why,
I
don’t know.
It rang desperately true,
and the first yarn,
if you understand me,
had been
in a queer way true also
in spirit.
The fifteenth day
of June was going
to be a day
of destiny,
a bigger destiny
than the killing
of a Dago.
It was so big
that I didn’t blame Scudder
for keeping me out
of the game
and wanting
to play a lone hand.
That,
I was pretty clear,
was his intention.
He had told me something
which sounded big enough,
but the real thing was so immortally big
that he,
the man
who had found it out,
wanted it all
for himself.
I didn’t blame him.
It was risks after all
that he was chiefly greedy about.
, , , , ,
The whole story was
in the notes
--with gaps,
you understand,
which he
would have filled up
from his memory.
He stuck down his authorities,
too,
and had an odd trick
of giving them all a numerical value
and
then striking a balance,
which stood
for the reliability
of each stage
in the yarn.
The four names he had printed were authorities,
and
there was a man,
Ducrosne,
who got five out
of a possible five;
and another fellow,
Ammersfoort,
who got three.
The bare bones
of the tale were all
that was
in the book
--these,
and one queer phrase
which occurred half a dozen times inside brackets.
‘(Thirty-nine steps)’ was the phrase;
and
at its last time
of use it ran
--’(Thirty-nine steps,
I counted them
--high tide 10.17 p.m.)’.
I
could make nothing
of that.
, , , , ,
The first thing I learned was
that it was no question
of preventing a war.
That was coming,
as sure
as Christmas:
had been arranged,
said Scudder,
ever
since February 1912.
Karolides was going
to be the occasion.
He was booked all right,
and was
to hand
in his checks
on June 14th,
two weeks
and four days from
that May morning.
I gathered
from Scudder’s notes
that nothing
on earth
could prevent that.
His talk
of Epirote guards
that
would skin their own grandmothers was all billy-o.
, , , , ,
The second thing was
that this war was going
to come
as a mighty surprise
to Britain.
Karolides’ death
would set the Balkans
by the ears,
and
then Vienna
would chip
in
with an ultimatum.
Russia wouldn’t
like that,
and
there
would be high words.
But Berlin
would play the peacemaker,
and pour oil
on the waters,
till suddenly she
would find a good cause
for a quarrel,
pick it up,
and
in five hours let fly
at us.
That was the idea,
and a pretty good one too.
Honey
and fair speeches,
and
then a stroke
in the dark.
While we were talking
about the goodwill
and good intentions
of Germany our coast
would be silently ringed
with mines,
and submarines
would be waiting
for every battleship.
, , , , ,
But all this depended upon the third thing,
which was due
to happen
on June 15th.
I
would never have grasped this
if I hadn’t once happened
to meet a French staff officer,
coming back
from West Africa,
who had told me a lot
of things.
One was that,
in spite
of all the nonsense talked
in Parliament,
there was a real working alliance
between France
and Britain,
and
that the two General Staffs met every now
and then,
and made plans
for joint action
in case
of war.
Well,
in June a very great swell was coming
over
from Paris,
and he was going
to get nothing less
than a statement
of the disposition
of the British Home Fleet
on mobilization.
At least I gathered it was something
like that;
anyhow,
it was something uncommonly important.
, , , , ,
But
on the 15th day
of June
there were
to be others
in London
--others,
at whom I
could only guess.
Scudder was content
to call them collectively the ‘Black Stone’.
They represented not our Allies,
but our deadly foes;
and the information,
destined
for France,
was
to be diverted
to their pockets.
And it was
to be used,
remember
--used a week
or two later,
with great guns
and swift torpedoes,
suddenly
in the darkness
of a summer night.
, , , , ,
This was the story I had been deciphering
in a back room
of a country inn,
overlooking a cabbage garden.
This was the story
that hummed
in my brain
as I swung
in the big touring-car
from glen
to glen.
, , , , ,
My first impulse had been
to write a letter
to the Prime Minister,
but a little reflection convinced me
that that
would be useless.
Who
would believe my tale?
I must show a sign,
some token
in proof,
and Heaven knew what
that
could be.
Above all,
I must keep going myself,
ready
to act
when things got riper,
and
that was going
to be no light job
with the police
of the British Isles
in full cry after me
and the watchers
of the Black Stone running silently
and swiftly
on my trail.
, , , , ,
I had no very clear purpose
in my journey,
but I steered east
by the sun,
for I remembered
from the map that
if I went north I
would come
into a region
of coalpits
and industrial towns.
Presently I was down
from the moorlands
and traversing the broad haugh
of a river.
For miles I ran alongside a park wall,
and
in a break
of the trees I saw a great castle.
I swung
through little old thatched villages,
and
over peaceful lowland streams,
and past gardens blazing
with hawthorn
and yellow laburnum.
The land was so deep
in peace
that I
could scarcely believe
that somewhere
behind me were those
who sought my life;
ay,
and that
in a month’s time,
unless I had the almightiest
of luck,
these round country faces
would be pinched
and staring,
and men
would be lying dead
in English fields.
, , , , ,
About mid-day I entered a long straggling village,
and had a mind
to stop
and eat.
Half-way down was the Post Office,
and
on the steps
of it stood the postmistress
and a policeman hard
at work conning a telegram.
When they saw me they wakened up,
and the policeman advanced
with raised hand,
and cried
on me
to stop.
, , , , ,
I nearly was fool enough
to obey.
Then it flashed upon me
that the wire had
to do
with me;
that my friends
at the inn had come
to an understanding,
and were united
in desiring
to see more
of me,
and
that it had been easy enough
for them
to wire the description
of me
and the car
to thirty villages through
which I might pass.
I released the brakes just
in time.
As it was,
the policeman made a claw
at the hood,
and only dropped off
when he got my left
in his eye.
, , , , ,
I saw
that main roads were no place
for me,
and turned
into the byways.
It wasn’t an easy job without a map,
for
there was the risk
of getting
on
to a farm road
and ending
in a duck-pond
or a stable-yard,
and I couldn’t afford
that kind
of delay.
I began
to see
what an ass I had been
to steal the car.
The big green brute
would be the safest kind
of clue
to me
over the breadth
of Scotland.
If I left it
and took
to my feet,
it
would be discovered
in an hour
or two
and I
would get no start
in the race.
, , , , ,
The immediate thing
to do was
to get
to the loneliest roads.
These I soon found
when I struck up a tributary
of the big river,
and got
into a glen
with steep hills all
about me,
and a corkscrew road
at the end
which climbed
over a pass.
Here I met nobody,
but it was taking me too far north,
so I slewed east
along a bad track
and finally struck a big double-line railway.
Away below me I saw another broadish valley,
and it occurred
to me that
if I crossed it I might find some remote inn
to pass the night.
The evening was now drawing in,
and I was furiously hungry,
for I had eaten nothing
since breakfast except a couple
of buns I had bought
from a baker’s cart.
Just
then I heard a noise
in the sky,
and lo
and behold
there was
that infernal aeroplane,
flying low,
about a dozen miles
to the south
and rapidly coming
towards me.
, , , , ,
I had the sense
to remember that
on a bare moor I was
at the aeroplane’s mercy,
and
that my only chance was
to get
to the leafy cover
of the valley.
Down the hill I went
like blue lightning,
screwing my head round,
whenever I dared,
to watch
that damned flying machine.
Soon I was
on a road
between hedges,
and dipping
to the deep-cut glen
of a stream.
Then came a bit
of thick wood
where I slackened speed.
, , , , ,
Suddenly
on my left I heard the hoot
of another car,
and realized
to my horror
that I was
almost up
on a couple
of gate-posts through
which a private road debouched
on the highway.
My horn gave an agonized roar,
but it was too late.
I clapped
on my brakes,
but my impetus was too great,
and
there
before me a car was sliding athwart my course.
In a second
there
would have been the deuce
of a wreck.
I did the only thing possible,
and ran slap
into the hedge
on the right,
trusting
to find something soft beyond.
, , , , ,
But
there I was mistaken.
My car slithered
through the hedge
like butter,
and
then gave a sickening plunge forward.
I saw
what was coming,
leapt
on the seat
and
would have jumped out.
But a branch
of hawthorn got me
in the chest,
lifted me up
and held me,
while a ton
or two
of expensive metal slipped below me,
bucked
and pitched,
and
then dropped
with an almighty smash fifty feet
to the bed
of the stream.
, , , , ,
Slowly
that thorn let me go.
I subsided first
on the hedge,
and
then very gently
on a bower
of nettles.
As I scrambled
to my feet a hand took me
by the arm,
and a sympathetic
and badly scared voice asked me
if I were hurt.
, , , , ,
I found myself looking
at a tall young man
in goggles
and a leather ulster,
who kept
on blessing his soul
and whinnying apologies.
For myself,
once I got my wind back,
I was rather glad
than otherwise.
This was one way
of getting rid
of the car.
, , , , ,
‘My blame,
Sir,’
I answered him.
‘It’s lucky
that I did not add homicide
to my follies.
That’s the end
of my Scotch motor tour,
but it might have been the end
of my life.’
, , , , ,
He plucked out a watch
and studied it.
‘You’re the right sort
of fellow,’
he said.
‘I
can spare a quarter
of an hour,
and my house is two minutes off.
I’ll see you clothed
and fed
and snug
in bed.
Where’s your kit,
by the way?
Is it
in the burn along
with the car?’
, , , , ,
‘It’s
in my pocket,’
I said,
brandishing a toothbrush.
‘I’m a Colonial
and travel light.’
, , , , ,
‘A Colonial,’
he cried.
‘By Gad,
you’re the very man I’ve been praying for.
Are you
by any blessed chance a Free Trader?’
, , , , ,
‘I am,’
said I,
without the foggiest notion
of
what he meant.
, , , , ,
He patted my shoulder
and hurried me
into his car.
Three minutes later we drew up
before a comfortable-looking shooting box set
among pine-trees,
and he ushered me indoors.
He took me first
to a bedroom
and flung half a dozen
of his suits
before me,
for my own had been pretty well reduced
to rags.
I selected a loose blue serge,
which differed most conspicuously
from my former garments,
and borrowed a linen collar.
Then he haled me
to the dining-room,
where the remnants
of a meal stood
on the table,
and announced
that I had just five minutes
to feed.
‘You
can take a snack
in your pocket,
and we’ll have supper
when we get back.
I’ve got
to be
at the Masonic Hall
at eight o’clock,
or my agent
will comb my hair.’
, , , , ,
I had a cup
of coffee
and some cold ham,
while he yarned away
on the hearth-rug.
, , , , ,
‘You find me
in the deuce
of a mess,
Mr
--by-the-by,
you haven’t told me your name.
Twisdon?
Any relation
of old Tommy Twisdon
of the Sixtieth?
No?
Well,
you see I’m Liberal Candidate
for this part
of the world,
and I had a meeting
on tonight
at Brattleburn
--that’s my chief town,
and an infernal Tory stronghold.
I had got the Colonial ex-Premier fellow,
Crumpleton,
coming
to speak
for me tonight,
and had the thing tremendously billed
and the whole place ground-baited.
This afternoon I had a wire
from the ruffian saying he had got influenza
at Blackpool,
and here am I left
to do the whole thing myself.
I had meant
to speak
for ten minutes
and must now go
on
for forty,
and,
though I’ve been racking my brains
for three hours
to think
of something,
I simply cannot last the course.
Now you’ve got
to be a good chap
and help me.
You’re a Free Trader
and
can tell our people
what a wash-out Protection is
in the Colonies.
All you fellows have the gift
of the gab
--I wish
to Heaven I had it.
I’ll be
for evermore
in your debt.’
, , , , ,
I had very few notions
about Free Trade one way
or the other,
but I saw no other chance
to get
what I wanted.
My young gentleman was far too absorbed
in his own difficulties
to think
how odd it was
to ask a stranger
who had just missed death
by an ace
and had lost a 1,000-guinea car
to address a meeting
for him
on the spur
of the moment.
But my necessities did not allow me
to contemplate oddnesses or
to pick
and choose my supports.
, , , , ,
‘All right,’
I said.
‘I’m not much good
as a speaker,
but I’ll tell them a bit
about Australia.’
, , , , ,
At my words the cares
of the ages slipped
from his shoulders,
and he was rapturous
in his thanks.
He lent me a big driving coat
--and never troubled
to ask
why I had started
on a motor tour without possessing an ulster
--and,
as we slipped down the dusty roads,
poured
into my ears the simple facts
of his history.
He was an orphan,
and his uncle had brought him up
--I’ve forgotten the uncle’s name,
but he was
in the Cabinet,
and you
can read his speeches
in the papers.
He had gone round the world after leaving Cambridge,
and then,
being short
of a job,
his uncle had advised politics.
I gathered
that he had no preference
in parties.
‘Good chaps
in both,’
he said cheerfully,
‘and plenty
of blighters,
too.
I’m Liberal,
because my family have always been Whigs.’
But
if he was lukewarm politically he had strong views
on other things.
He found out I knew a bit
about horses,
and jawed away
about the Derby entries;
and he was full
of plans
for improving his shooting.
Altogether,
a very clean,
decent,
callow young man.
, , , , ,
As we passed
through a little town two policemen signalled us
to stop,
and flashed their lanterns
on us.
, , , , ,
‘Beg pardon,
Sir Harry,’
said one.
‘We’ve got instructions
to look out
for a car,
and the description’s no unlike yours.’
, , , , ,
‘Right-o,’
said my host,
while I thanked Providence
for the devious ways I had been brought
to safety.
After
that he spoke no more,
for his mind began
to labour heavily
with his coming speech.
His lips kept muttering,
his eye wandered,
and I began
to prepare myself
for a second catastrophe.
I tried
to think
of something
to say myself,
but my mind was dry
as a stone.
The next thing I knew we had drawn up outside a door
in a street,
and were being welcomed
by some noisy gentlemen
with rosettes.
The hall had
about five hundred
in it,
women mostly,
a lot
of bald heads,
and a dozen
or two young men.
The chairman,
a weaselly minister
with a reddish nose,
lamented Crumpleton’s absence,
soliloquized
on his influenza,
and gave me a certificate
as a ‘trusted leader
of Australian thought’.
There were two policemen
at the door,
and I hoped they took note
of
that testimonial.
Then Sir Harry started.
, , , , ,
I never heard anything
like it.
He didn’t begin
to know how
to talk.
He had
about a bushel
of notes
from
which he read,
and
when he let go
of them he fell
into one prolonged stutter.
Every now
and
then he remembered a phrase he had learned
by heart,
straightened his back,
and gave it off
like Henry Irving,
and the next moment he was bent double
and crooning
over his papers.
It was the most appalling rot,
too.
He talked
about the ‘German menace’,
and said it was all a Tory invention
to cheat the poor
of their rights
and keep back the great flood
of social reform,
but
that ‘organized labour’ realized this
and laughed the Tories
to scorn.
He was all
for reducing our Navy
as a proof
of our good faith,
and
then sending Germany an ultimatum telling her
to do the same
or we
would knock her
into a cocked hat.
He said that,
but
for the Tories,
Germany
and Britain
would be fellow-workers
in peace
and reform.
I thought
of the little black book
in my pocket!
A giddy lot Scudder’s friends cared
for peace
and reform.
, , , , ,
Yet
in a queer way I liked the speech.
You
could see the niceness
of the chap shining out
behind the muck
with
which he had been spoon-fed.
Also it took a load off my mind.
I mightn’t be much
of an orator,
but I was a thousand per cent better
than Sir Harry.
, , , , ,
I didn’t get
on so badly
when it came
to my turn.
I simply told them all I
could remember
about Australia,
praying
there
should be no Australian there
--all
about its labour party
and emigration
and universal service.
I doubt
if I remembered
to mention Free Trade,
but I said
there were no Tories
in Australia,
only Labour
and Liberals.
That fetched a cheer,
and I woke them up a bit
when I started
in
to tell them the kind
of glorious business I thought
could be made out
of the Empire
if we really put our backs
into it.
, , , , ,
Altogether I fancy I was rather a success.
The minister didn’t
like me,
though,
and
when he proposed a vote
of thanks,
spoke
of Sir Harry’s speech
as ‘statesmanlike’
and mine
as having ‘the eloquence
of an emigration agent’.
, , , , ,
When we were
in the car again my host was
in wild spirits
at having got his job over.
‘A ripping speech,
Twisdon,’
he said.
‘Now,
you’re coming home
with me.
I’m all alone,
and
if you’ll stop a day
or two I’ll show you some very decent fishing.’
, , , , ,
We had a hot supper
--and I wanted it pretty badly
--and
then drank grog
in a big cheery smoking-room
with a crackling wood fire.
I thought the time had come
for me
to put my cards
on the table.
I saw
by this man’s eye
that he was the kind you
can trust.
, , , , ,
‘Listen,
Sir Harry,’
I said.
‘I’ve something pretty important
to say
to you.
You’re a good fellow,
and I’m going
to be frank.
Where
on earth did you get
that poisonous rubbish you talked tonight?’
, , , , ,
His face fell.
‘Was it
as bad
as that?’
he asked ruefully.
‘It did sound rather thin.
I got most
of it out
of the PROGRESSIVE MAGAZINE
and pamphlets
that agent chap
of mine keeps sending me.
But you surely
don’t think Germany
would ever go
to war
with us?’
, , , , ,
‘Ask
that question
in six weeks
and it
won’t need an answer,’
I said.
‘If you’ll give me your attention
for half an hour I am going
to tell you a story.’
, , , , ,
I
can see yet
that bright room
with the deers’ heads
and the old prints
on the walls,
Sir Harry standing restlessly
on the stone curb
of the hearth,
and myself lying back
in an armchair,
speaking.
I seemed
to be another person,
standing aside
and listening
to my own voice,
and judging carefully the reliability
of my tale.
It was the first time I had ever told anyone the exact truth,
so far
as I understood it,
and it did me no end
of good,
for it straightened out the thing
in my own mind.
I blinked no detail.
He heard all
about Scudder,
and the milkman,
and the note-book,
and my doings
in Galloway.
Presently he got very excited
and walked up
and down the hearth-rug.
, , , , ,
‘So you see,’
I concluded,
‘you have got here
in your house the man
that is wanted
for the Portland Place murder.
Your duty is
to send your car
for the police
and give me up.
I
don’t think I’ll get very far.
There’ll be an accident,
and I’ll have a knife
in my ribs an hour
or so after arrest.
Nevertheless,
it’s your duty,
as a law-abiding citizen.
Perhaps
in a month’s time you’ll be sorry,
but you have no cause
to think
of that.’
, , , , ,
He was looking
at me
with bright steady eyes.
‘What was your job
in Rhodesia,
Mr Hannay?’
he asked.
, , , , ,
‘Mining engineer,’
I said.
‘I’ve made my pile cleanly
and I’ve had a good time
in the making
of it.’
, , , , ,
‘Not a profession
that weakens the nerves,
is it?’
, , , , ,
I laughed.
‘Oh,
as
to that,
my nerves are good enough.’
I took down a hunting-knife
from a stand
on the wall,
and did the old Mashona trick
of tossing it
and catching it
in my lips.
That wants a pretty steady heart.
, , , , ,
He watched me
with a smile.
‘I
don’t want proof.
I may be an ass
on the platform,
but I
can size up a man.
You’re no murderer
and you’re no fool,
and I believe you are speaking the truth.
I’m going
to back you up.
Now,
what
can I do?’
, , , , ,
‘First,
I want you
to write a letter
to your uncle.
I’ve got
to get
in touch
with the Government people sometime
before the 15th
of June.’
, , , , ,
He pulled his moustache.
‘That
won’t help you.
This is Foreign Office business,
and my uncle
would have nothing
to do
with it.
Besides,
you’d never convince him.
No,
I’ll go one better.
I’ll write
to the Permanent Secretary
at the Foreign Office.
He’s my godfather,
and one
of the best going.
What do you want?’
, , , , ,
He sat down
at a table
and wrote
to my dictation.
The gist
of it was that
if a man called Twisdon
(I thought I had better stick
to
that name)
turned up
before June 15th he was
to entreat him kindly.
He said Twisdon
would prove his bona fides
by passing the word ‘Black Stone’
and whistling ‘Annie Laurie’.
, , , , ,
‘Good,’
said Sir Harry.
‘That’s the proper style.
By the way,
you’ll find my godfather
--his name’s Sir Walter Bullivant
--down
at his country cottage
for Whitsuntide.
It’s close
to Artinswell
on the Kenner.
That’s done.
Now,
what’s the next thing?’
, , , , ,
‘You’re
about my height.
Lend me the oldest tweed suit you’ve got.
Anything
will do,
so long
as the colour is the opposite
of the clothes I destroyed this afternoon.
Then show me a map
of the neighbourhood
and explain
to me the lie
of the land.
Lastly,
if the police come seeking me,
just show them the car
in the glen.
If the other lot turn up,
tell them I caught the south express after your meeting.’
, , , , ,
He did,
or promised
to do,
all these things.
I shaved off the remnants
of my moustache,
and got inside an ancient suit
of
what I believe is called heather mixture.
The map gave me some notion
of my whereabouts,
and told me the two things I wanted
to know
--where the main railway
to the south
could be joined
and
what were the wildest districts near
at hand.
At two o’clock he wakened me
from my slumbers
in the smoking-room armchair,
and led me blinking
into the dark starry night.
An old bicycle was found
in a tool-shed
and handed over
to me.
, , , , ,
‘First turn
to the right up
by the long fir-wood,’
he enjoined.
‘By daybreak you’ll be well
into the hills.
Then I
should pitch the machine
into a bog
and take
to the moors
on foot.
You
can put
in a week
among the shepherds,
and be
as safe
as
if you were
in New Guinea.’
, , , , ,
I pedalled diligently up steep roads
of hill gravel
till the skies grew pale
with morning.
As the mists cleared
before the sun,
I found myself
in a wide green world
with glens falling
on every side
and a far-away blue horizon.
Here,
at any rate,
I
could get early news
of my enemies.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER FIVE
The Adventure
of the Spectacled Roadman
I sat down
on the very crest
of the pass
and took stock
of my position.
, , , , ,
Behind me was the road climbing
through a long cleft
in the hills,
which was the upper glen
of some notable river.
In front was a flat space
of maybe a mile,
all pitted
with bog-holes
and rough
with tussocks,
and
then beyond it the road fell steeply down another glen
to a plain whose blue dimness melted
into the distance.
To left
and right were round-shouldered green hills
as smooth
as pancakes,
but
to the south
--that is,
the left hand
--there was a glimpse
of high heathery mountains,
which I remembered
from the map
as the big knot
of hill
which I had chosen
for my sanctuary.
I was
on the central boss
of a huge upland country,
and
could see everything moving
for miles.
In the meadows below the road half a mile back a cottage smoked,
but it was the only sign
of human life.
Otherwise
there was only the calling
of plovers
and the tinkling
of little streams.
, , , , ,
It was now
about seven o’clock,
and
as I waited I heard once again
that ominous beat
in the air.
Then I realized
that my vantage-ground might be
in reality a trap.
There was no cover
for a tomtit
in those bald green places.
, , , , ,
I sat quite still
and hopeless
while the beat grew louder.
Then I saw an aeroplane coming up
from the east.
It was flying high,
but
as I looked it dropped several hundred feet
and began
to circle round the knot
of hill
in narrowing circles,
just
as a hawk wheels
before it pounces.
Now it was flying very low,
and now the observer
on board caught sight
of me.
I
could see one
of the two occupants examining me
through glasses.
, , , , ,
Suddenly it began
to rise
in swift whorls,
and the next I knew it was speeding eastward again
till it became a speck
in the blue morning.
, , , , ,
That made me do some savage thinking.
My enemies had located me,
and the next thing
would be a cordon round me.
I didn’t know
what force they
could command,
but I was certain it
would be sufficient.
The aeroplane had seen my bicycle,
and
would conclude
that I
would try
to escape
by the road.
In
that case
there might be a chance
on the moors
to the right
or left.
I wheeled the machine a hundred yards
from the highway,
and plunged it
into a moss-hole,
where it sank
among pond-weed
and water-buttercups.
Then I climbed
to a knoll
which gave me a view
of the two valleys.
Nothing was stirring
on the long white ribbon
that threaded them.
, , , , ,
I have said
there was not cover
in the whole place
to hide a rat.
As the day advanced it was flooded
with soft fresh light
till it had the fragrant sunniness
of the South African veld.
At other times I
would have liked the place,
but now it seemed
to suffocate me.
The free moorlands were prison walls,
and the keen hill air was the breath
of a dungeon.
, , , , ,
I tossed a coin
--heads right,
tails left
--and it fell heads,
so I turned
to the north.
In a little I came
to the brow
of the ridge
which was the containing wall
of the pass.
I saw the highroad
for maybe ten miles,
and far down it something
that was moving,
and
that I took
to be a motor-car.
Beyond the ridge I looked
on a rolling green moor,
which fell away
into wooded glens.
, , , , ,
Now my life
on the veld has given me the eyes
of a kite,
and I
can see things
for
which most men need a telescope ...
Away down the slope,
a couple
of miles away,
several men were advancing,
like a row
of beaters
at a shoot ...
, , , , ,
I dropped out
of sight
behind the sky-line.
That way was shut
to me,
and I must try the bigger hills
to the south beyond the highway.
The car I had noticed was getting nearer,
but it was still a long way off
with some very steep gradients
before it.
I ran hard,
crouching low except
in the hollows,
and
as I ran I kept scanning the brow
of the hill
before me.
Was it imagination,
or did I see figures
--one,
two,
perhaps more
--moving
in a glen beyond the stream?
, , , , ,
If you are hemmed
in
on all sides
in a patch
of land
there is only one chance
of escape.
You must stay
in the patch,
and let your enemies search it
and not find you.
That was good sense,
but how
on earth was I
to escape notice
in
that table-cloth
of a place?
I
would have buried myself
to the neck
in mud
or lain below water
or climbed the tallest tree.
But
there was not a stick
of wood,
the bog-holes were little puddles,
the stream was a slender trickle.
There was nothing
but short heather,
and bare hill bent,
and the white highway.
, , , , ,
Then
in a tiny bight
of road,
beside a heap
of stones,
I found the roadman.
, , , , ,
He had just arrived,
and was wearily flinging down his hammer.
He looked
at me
with a fishy eye
and yawned.
, , , , ,
‘Confoond the day I ever left the herdin’!’ he said,
as if
to the world
at large.
‘There I was my ain maister.
Now I’m a slave
to the Goavernment,
tethered
to the roadside,
wi’ sair een,
and a back
like a suckle.’
, , , , ,
He took up the hammer,
struck a stone,
dropped the implement
with an oath,
and put both hands
to his ears.
‘Mercy
on me!
My heid’s burstin’!’ he cried.
, , , , ,
He was a wild figure,
about my own size
but much bent,
with a week’s beard
on his chin,
and a pair
of big horn spectacles.
, , , , ,
‘I canna dae’t,’
he cried again.
‘The Surveyor maun just report me.
I’m
for my bed.’
, , , , ,
I asked him
what was the trouble,
though indeed
that was clear enough.
, , , , ,
‘The trouble is
that I’m no sober.
Last nicht my dochter Merran was waddit,
and they danced
till fower
in the byre.
Me
and some ither chiels sat down
to the drinkin’,
and here I am.
Peety
that I ever lookit
on the wine
when it was red!’
I agreed
with him
about bed.
‘It’s easy speakin’,’
he moaned.
‘But I got a postcard yestreen sayin’
that the new Road Surveyor
would be round the day.
He’ll come
and he’ll no find me,
or else he’ll find me fou,
and either way I’m a done man.
I’ll awa’ back
to my bed
and say I’m no weel,
but I doot that’ll no help me,
for they ken my kind o’ no-weel-ness.’
, , , , ,
Then I had an inspiration.
‘Does the new Surveyor know you?’
I asked.
, , , , ,
‘No him.
He’s just been a week
at the job.
He rins about
in a wee motor-cawr,
and wad speir the inside oot o’ a whelk.’
, , , , ,
‘Where’s your house?’
I asked,
and was directed
by a wavering finger
to the cottage
by the stream.
, , , , ,
‘Well,
back
to your bed,’
I said,
‘and sleep
in peace.
I’ll take
on your job
for a bit
and see the Surveyor.’
, , , , ,
He stared
at me blankly;
then,
as the notion dawned
on his fuddled brain,
his face broke
into the vacant drunkard’s smile.
, , , , ,
‘You’re the billy,’
he cried.
‘It’ll be easy eneuch managed.
I’ve finished
that bing o’ stanes,
so you needna chap ony mair this forenoon.
Just take the barry,
and wheel eneuch metal frae yon quarry doon the road
to mak anither bing the morn.
My name’s Alexander Turnbull,
and I’ve been seeven year
at the trade,
and twenty afore
that herdin’
on Leithen Water.
My freens ca’ me Ecky,
and whiles Specky,
for I wear glesses,
being waik i’ the sicht.
Just you speak the Surveyor fair,
and ca’ him Sir,
and he’ll be fell pleased.
I’ll be back
or mid-day.’
, , , , ,
I borrowed his spectacles
and filthy old hat;
stripped off coat,
waistcoat,
and collar,
and gave him them
to carry home;
borrowed,
too,
the foul stump
of a clay pipe
as an extra property.
He indicated my simple tasks,
and without more ado set off
at an amble bedwards.
Bed may have been his chief object,
but I think
there was also something left
in the foot
of a bottle.
I prayed
that he might be safe
under cover
before my friends arrived
on the scene.
, , , , ,
Then I set
to work
to dress
for the part.
I opened the collar
of my shirt
--it was a vulgar blue-and-white check such
as ploughmen wear
--and revealed a neck
as brown
as any tinker’s.
I rolled up my sleeves,
and
there was a forearm
which might have been a blacksmith’s,
sunburnt
and rough
with old scars.
I got my boots
and trouser-legs all white
from the dust
of the road,
and hitched up my trousers,
tying them
with string below the knee.
Then I set
to work
on my face.
With a handful
of dust I made a water-mark round my neck,
the place
where Mr Turnbull’s Sunday ablutions might be expected
to stop.
I rubbed a good deal
of dirt also
into the sunburn
of my cheeks.
A roadman’s eyes
would no doubt be a little inflamed,
so I contrived
to get some dust
in both
of mine,
and
by dint
of vigorous rubbing produced a bleary effect.
, , , , ,
The sandwiches Sir Harry had given me had gone off
with my coat,
but the roadman’s lunch,
tied up
in a red handkerchief,
was
at my disposal.
I ate
with great relish several
of the thick slabs
of scone
and cheese
and drank a little
of the cold tea.
In the handkerchief was a local paper tied
with string
and addressed
to Mr Turnbull
--obviously meant
to solace his mid-day leisure.
I did up the bundle again,
and put the paper conspicuously beside it.
, , , , ,
My boots did not satisfy me,
but
by dint
of kicking
among the stones I reduced them
to the granite-like surface
which marks a roadman’s foot-gear.
Then I bit
and scraped my finger-nails
till the edges were all cracked
and uneven.
The men I was matched against
would miss no detail.
I broke one
of the bootlaces
and retied it
in a clumsy knot,
and loosed the other so
that my thick grey socks bulged
over the uppers.
Still no sign
of anything
on the road.
The motor I had observed half an hour ago must have gone home.
, , , , ,
My toilet complete,
I took up the barrow
and began my journeys
to
and
from the quarry a hundred yards off.
, , , , ,
I remember an old scout
in Rhodesia,
who had done many queer things
in his day,
once telling me
that the secret
of playing a part was
to think yourself
into it.
You
could never keep it up,
he said,
unless you
could manage
to convince yourself
that you were it.
So I shut off all other thoughts
and switched them
on
to the road-mending.
I thought
of the little white cottage
as my home,
I recalled the years I had spent herding
on Leithen Water,
I made my mind dwell lovingly
on sleep
in a box-bed
and a bottle
of cheap whisky.
Still nothing appeared
on
that long white road.
, , , , ,
Now
and
then a sheep wandered off the heather
to stare
at me.
A heron flopped down
to a pool
in the stream
and started
to fish,
taking no more notice
of me than
if I had been a milestone.
On I went,
trundling my loads
of stone,
with the heavy step
of the professional.
Soon I grew warm,
and the dust
on my face changed
into solid
and abiding grit.
I was already counting the hours
till evening
should put a limit
to Mr Turnbull’s monotonous toil.
Suddenly a crisp voice spoke
from the road,
and looking up I saw a little Ford two-seater,
and a round-faced young man
in a bowler hat.
, , , , ,
‘Are you Alexander Turnbull?’
he asked.
‘I am the new County Road Surveyor.
You live
at Blackhopefoot,
and have charge
of the section
from Laidlawbyres
to the Riggs?
Good!
A fair bit
of road,
Turnbull,
and not badly engineered.
A little soft
about a mile off,
and the edges want cleaning.
See you look after that.
Good morning.
You’ll know me the next time you see me.’
, , , , ,
Clearly my get-up was good enough
for the dreaded Surveyor.
I went
on
with my work,
and
as the morning grew
towards noon I was cheered
by a little traffic.
A baker’s van breasted the hill,
and sold me a bag
of ginger biscuits
which I stowed
in my trouser-pockets
against emergencies.
Then a herd passed
with sheep,
and disturbed me somewhat
by asking loudly,
‘What had become o’ Specky?’
, , , , ,
‘In bed wi’ the colic,’
I replied,
and the herd passed
on ...
just
about mid-day a big car stole down the hill,
glided past
and drew up a hundred yards beyond.
Its three occupants descended
as if
to stretch their legs,
and sauntered
towards me.
, , , , ,
Two
of the men I had seen before
from the window
of the Galloway inn
--one lean,
sharp,
and dark,
the other comfortable
and smiling.
The third had the look
of a countryman
--a vet,
perhaps,
or a small farmer.
He was dressed
in ill-cut knickerbockers,
and the eye
in his head was
as bright
and wary
as a hen’s.
, , , , ,
‘Morning,’
said the last.
‘That’s a fine easy job o’ yours.’
, , , , ,
I had not looked up
on their approach,
and now,
when accosted,
I slowly
and painfully straightened my back,
after the manner
of roadmen;
spat vigorously,
after the manner
of the low Scot;
and regarded them steadily
before replying.
I confronted three pairs
of eyes
that missed nothing.
, , , , ,
‘There’s waur jobs
and there’s better,’
I said sententiously.
‘I wad rather hae yours,
sittin’ a’ day
on your hinderlands
on thae cushions.
It’s you
and your muckle cawrs
that wreck my roads!
If we a’ had oor richts,
ye sud be made
to mend
what ye break.’
, , , , ,
The bright-eyed man was looking
at the newspaper lying beside Turnbull’s bundle.
, , , , ,
‘I see you get your papers
in good time,’
he said.
, , , , ,
I glanced
at it casually.
‘Aye,
in gude time.
Seein’
that that paper cam’ out last Setterday I’m just Sax days late.’
, , , , ,
He picked it up,
glanced
at the superscription,
and laid it down again.
One
of the others had been looking
at my boots,
and a word
in German called the speaker’s attention
to them.
, , , , ,
‘You’ve a fine taste
in boots,’
he said.
‘These were never made
by a country shoemaker.’
, , , , ,
‘They were not,’
I said readily.
‘They were made
in London.
I got them frae the gentleman
that was here last year
for the shootin’.
What was his name now?’
And I scratched a forgetful head.
Again the sleek one spoke
in German.
‘Let us get on,’
he said.
‘This fellow is all right.’
, , , , ,
They asked one last question.
, , , , ,
‘Did you see anyone pass early this morning?
He might be
on a bicycle
or he might be
on foot.’
, , , , ,
I very nearly fell
into the trap
and told a story
of a bicyclist hurrying past
in the grey dawn.
But I had the sense
to see my danger.
I pretended
to consider very deeply.
, , , , ,
‘I wasna up very early,’
I said.
‘Ye see,
my dochter was merrit last nicht,
and we keepit it up late.
I opened the house door
about seeven
and
there was naebody
on the road then.
Since I cam’ up here
there has just been the baker
and the Ruchill herd,
besides you gentlemen.’
, , , , ,
One
of them gave me a cigar,
which I smelt gingerly
and stuck
in Turnbull’s bundle.
They got
into their car
and were out
of sight
in three minutes.
, , , , ,
My heart leaped
with an enormous relief,
but I went
on wheeling my stones.
It was
as well,
for ten minutes later the car returned,
one
of the occupants waving a hand
to me.
Those gentry left nothing
to chance.
, , , , ,
I finished Turnbull’s bread
and cheese,
and pretty soon I had finished the stones.
The next step was
what puzzled me.
I
could not keep up this roadmaking business
for long.
A merciful Providence had kept Mr Turnbull indoors,
but
if he appeared
on the scene
there
would be trouble.
I had a notion
that the cordon was still tight round the glen,
and that
if I walked
in any direction I
should meet
with questioners.
But get out I must.
No man’s nerve
could stand more
than a day
of being spied on.
, , , , ,
I stayed
at my post
till five o’clock.
By
that time I had resolved
to go down
to Turnbull’s cottage
at nightfall
and take my chance
of getting
over the hills
in the darkness.
But suddenly a new car came up the road,
and slowed down a yard
or two
from me.
A fresh wind had risen,
and the occupant wanted
to light a cigarette.
It was a touring car,
with the tonneau full
of an assortment
of baggage.
One man sat
in it,
and
by an amazing chance I knew him.
His name was Marmaduke Jopley,
and he was an offence
to creation.
He was a sort
of blood stockbroker,
who did his business
by toadying eldest sons
and rich young peers
and foolish old ladies.
‘Marmie’ was a familiar figure,
I understood,
at balls
and polo-weeks
and country houses.
He was an adroit scandal-monger,
and
would crawl a mile
on his belly
to anything
that had a title
or a million.
I had a business introduction
to his firm
when I came
to London,
and he was good enough
to ask me
to dinner
at his club.
There he showed off
at a great rate,
and pattered
about his duchesses
till the snobbery
of the creature turned me sick.
I asked a man afterwards
why nobody kicked him,
and was told
that Englishmen reverenced the weaker sex.
, , , , ,
Anyhow
there he was now,
nattily dressed,
in a fine new car,
obviously
on his way
to visit some
of his smart friends.
A sudden daftness took me,
and
in a second I had jumped
into the tonneau
and had him
by the shoulder.
, , , , ,
‘Hullo,
Jopley,’
I sang out.
‘Well met,
my lad!’ He got a horrid fright.
His chin dropped
as he stared
at me.
‘Who the devil are YOU?’
he gasped.
, , , , ,
‘My name’s Hannay,’
I said.
‘From Rhodesia,
you remember.’
, , , , ,
‘Good God,
the murderer!’ he choked.
, , , , ,
‘Just so.
And there’ll be a second murder,
my dear,
if you
don’t do
as I tell you.
Give me
that coat
of yours.
That cap,
too.’
, , , , ,
He did
as bid,
for he was blind
with terror.
Over my dirty trousers
and vulgar shirt I put
on his smart driving-coat,
which buttoned high
at the top
and thereby hid the deficiencies
of my collar.
I stuck the cap
on my head,
and added his gloves
to my get-up.
The dusty roadman
in a minute was transformed
into one
of the neatest motorists
in Scotland.
On Mr Jopley’s head I clapped Turnbull’s unspeakable hat,
and told him
to keep it there.
, , , , ,
Then
with some difficulty I turned the car.
My plan was
to go back the road he had come,
for the watchers,
having seen it before,
would probably let it pass unremarked,
and Marmie’s figure was
in no way
like mine.
, , , , ,
‘Now,
my child,’
I said,
‘sit quite still
and be a good boy.
I mean you no harm.
I’m only borrowing your car
for an hour
or two.
But
if you play me any tricks,
and
above all
if you open your mouth,
as sure
as there’s a God
above me I’ll wring your neck.
SAVEZ?’
, , , , ,
I enjoyed
that evening’s ride.
We ran eight miles down the valley,
through a village
or two,
and I
could not help noticing several strange-looking folk lounging
by the roadside.
These were the watchers
who
would have had much
to say
to me
if I had come
in other garb
or company.
As it was,
they looked incuriously on.
One touched his cap
in salute,
and I responded graciously.
, , , , ,
As the dark fell I turned up a side glen which,
as I remember
from the map,
led
into an unfrequented corner
of the hills.
Soon the villages were left behind,
then the farms,
and
then
even the wayside cottage.
Presently we came
to a lonely moor
where the night was blackening the sunset gleam
in the bog pools.
Here we stopped,
and I obligingly reversed the car
and restored
to Mr Jopley his belongings.
, , , , ,
‘A thousand thanks,’
I said.
‘There’s more use
in you
than I thought.
Now be off
and find the police.’
, , , , ,
As I sat
on the hillside,
watching the tail-light dwindle,
I reflected
on the various kinds
of crime I had now sampled.
Contrary
to general belief,
I was not a murderer,
but I had become an unholy liar,
a shameless impostor,
and a highwayman
with a marked taste
for expensive motor-cars.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER SIX
The Adventure
of the Bald Archaeologist
I spent the night
on a shelf
of the hillside,
in the lee
of a boulder
where the heather grew long
and soft.
It was a cold business,
for I had neither coat nor waistcoat.
These were
in Mr Turnbull’s keeping,
as was Scudder’s little book,
my watch and
--worst
of all
--my pipe
and tobacco pouch.
Only my money accompanied me
in my belt,
and
about half a pound
of ginger biscuits
in my trousers pocket.
, , , , ,
I supped off half those biscuits,
and
by worming myself deep
into the heather got some kind
of warmth.
My spirits had risen,
and I was beginning
to enjoy this crazy game
of hide-and-seek.
So far I had been miraculously lucky.
The milkman,
the literary innkeeper,
Sir Harry,
the roadman,
and the idiotic Marmie,
were all pieces
of undeserved good fortune.
Somehow the first success gave me a feeling
that I was going
to pull the thing through.
, , , , ,
My chief trouble was
that I was desperately hungry.
When a Jew shoots himself
in the City
and
there is an inquest,
the newspapers usually report
that the deceased was ‘well-nourished’.
I remember thinking
that they
would not call me well-nourished
if I broke my neck
in a bog-hole.
I lay
and tortured myself
--for the ginger biscuits merely emphasized the aching void
--with the memory
of all the good food I had thought so little of
in London.
There were Paddock’s crisp sausages
and fragrant shavings
of bacon,
and shapely poached eggs
--how often I had turned up my nose
at them!
There were the cutlets they did
at the club,
and a particular ham
that stood
on the cold table,
for
which my soul lusted.
My thoughts hovered
over all varieties
of mortal edible,
and finally settled
on a porterhouse steak
and a quart
of bitter
with a welsh rabbit
to follow.
In longing hopelessly
for these dainties I fell asleep.
, , , , ,
I woke very cold
and stiff
about an hour after dawn.
It took me a little while
to remember
where I was,
for I had been very weary
and had slept heavily.
I saw first the pale blue sky
through a net
of heather,
then a big shoulder
of hill,
and
then my own boots placed neatly
in a blaeberry bush.
I raised myself
on my arms
and looked down
into the valley,
and
that one look set me lacing up my boots
in mad haste.
, , , , ,
For
there were men below,
not more
than a quarter
of a mile off,
spaced out
on the hillside
like a fan,
and beating the heather.
Marmie had not been slow
in looking
for his revenge.
, , , , ,
I crawled out
of my shelf
into the cover
of a boulder,
and
from it gained a shallow trench
which slanted up the mountain face.
This led me presently
into the narrow gully
of a burn,
by way
of
which I scrambled
to the top
of the ridge.
From
there I looked back,
and saw
that I was still undiscovered.
My pursuers were patiently quartering the hillside
and moving upwards.
, , , , ,
Keeping
behind the skyline I ran
for maybe half a mile,
till I judged I was
above the uppermost end
of the glen.
Then I showed myself,
and was instantly noted
by one
of the flankers,
who passed the word
to the others.
I heard cries coming up
from below,
and saw
that the line
of search had changed its direction.
I pretended
to retreat
over the skyline,
but instead went back the way I had come,
and
in twenty minutes was
behind the ridge overlooking my sleeping place.
From
that viewpoint I had the satisfaction
of seeing the pursuit streaming up the hill
at the top
of the glen
on a hopelessly false scent.
, , , , ,
I had
before me a choice
of routes,
and I chose a ridge
which made an angle
with the one I was on,
and so
would soon put a deep glen
between me
and my enemies.
The exercise had warmed my blood,
and I was beginning
to enjoy myself amazingly.
As I went I breakfasted
on the dusty remnants
of the ginger biscuits.
, , , , ,
I knew very little
about the country,
and I hadn’t a notion
what I was going
to do.
I trusted
to the strength
of my legs,
but I was well aware
that those
behind me
would be familiar
with the lie
of the land,
and
that my ignorance
would be a heavy handicap.
I saw
in front
of me a sea
of hills,
rising very high
towards the south,
but northwards breaking down
into broad ridges
which separated wide
and shallow dales.
The ridge I had chosen seemed
to sink after a mile
or two
to a moor
which lay
like a pocket
in the uplands.
That seemed
as good a direction
to take
as any other.
, , , , ,
My stratagem had given me a fair start
--call it twenty minutes
--and I had the width
of a glen
behind me
before I saw the first heads
of the pursuers.
The police had evidently called
in local talent
to their aid,
and the men I
could see had the appearance
of herds
or gamekeepers.
They hallooed
at the sight
of me,
and I waved my hand.
Two dived
into the glen
and began
to climb my ridge,
while the others kept their own side
of the hill.
I felt
as
if I were taking part
in a schoolboy game
of hare
and hounds.
, , , , ,
But very soon it began
to seem less
of a game.
Those fellows
behind were hefty men
on their native heath.
Looking back I saw
that only three were following direct,
and I guessed
that the others had fetched a circuit
to cut me off.
My lack
of local knowledge might very well be my undoing,
and I resolved
to get out
of this tangle
of glens
to the pocket
of moor I had seen
from the tops.
I must so increase my distance as
to get clear away
from them,
and I believed I
could do this
if I
could find the right ground
for it.
If
there had been cover I
would have tried a bit
of stalking,
but
on these bare slopes you
could see a fly a mile off.
My hope must be
in the length
of my legs
and the soundness
of my wind,
but I needed easier ground
for that,
for I was not bred a mountaineer.
How I longed
for a good Afrikander pony!
I put
on a great spurt
and got off my ridge
and down
into the moor
before any figures appeared
on the skyline
behind me.
I crossed a burn,
and came out
on a highroad
which made a pass
between two glens.
All
in front
of me was a big field
of heather sloping up
to a crest
which was crowned
with an odd feather
of trees.
In the dyke
by the roadside was a gate,
from
which a grass-grown track led
over the first wave
of the moor.
, , , , ,
I jumped the dyke
and followed it,
and after a few hundred yards
--as soon
as it was out
of sight
of the highway
--the grass stopped
and it became a very respectable road,
which was evidently kept
with some care.
Clearly it ran
to a house,
and I began
to think
of doing the same.
Hitherto my luck had held,
and it might be
that my best chance
would be found
in this remote dwelling.
Anyhow
there were trees there,
and
that meant cover.
, , , , ,
I did not follow the road,
but the burnside
which flanked it
on the right,
where the bracken grew deep
and the high banks made a tolerable screen.
It was well I did so,
for no sooner had I gained the hollow than,
looking back,
I saw the pursuit topping the ridge
from
which I had descended.
, , , , ,
After
that I did not look back;
I had no time.
I ran up the burnside,
crawling
over the open places,
and
for a large part wading
in the shallow stream.
I found a deserted cottage
with a row
of phantom peat-stacks
and an overgrown garden.
Then I was
among young hay,
and very soon had come
to the edge
of a plantation
of wind-blown firs.
From
there I saw the chimneys
of the house smoking a few hundred yards
to my left.
I forsook the burnside,
crossed another dyke,
and
almost
before I knew was
on a rough lawn.
A glance back told me
that I was well out
of sight
of the pursuit,
which had not yet passed the first lift
of the moor.
, , , , ,
The lawn was a very rough place,
cut
with a scythe instead
of a mower,
and planted
with beds
of scrubby rhododendrons.
A brace
of black-game,
which are not usually garden birds,
rose
at my approach.
The house
before me was the ordinary moorland farm,
with a more pretentious whitewashed wing added.
Attached
to this wing was a glass veranda,
and
through the glass I saw the face
of an elderly gentleman meekly watching me.
, , , , ,
I stalked
over the border
of coarse hill gravel
and entered the open veranda door.
Within was a pleasant room,
glass
on one side,
and
on the other a mass
of books.
More books showed
in an inner room.
On the floor,
instead
of tables,
stood cases such
as you see
in a museum,
filled
with coins
and queer stone implements.
, , , , ,
There was a knee-hole desk
in the middle,
and seated
at it,
with some papers
and open volumes
before him,
was the benevolent old gentleman.
His face was round
and shiny,
like Mr Pickwick’s,
big glasses were stuck
on the end
of his nose,
and the top
of his head was
as bright
and bare
as a glass bottle.
He never moved
when I entered,
but raised his placid eyebrows
and waited
on me
to speak.
, , , , ,
It was not an easy job,
with
about five minutes
to spare,
to tell a stranger
who I was
and
what I wanted,
and
to win his aid.
I did not attempt it.
There was something
about the eye
of the man
before me,
something so keen
and knowledgeable,
that I
could not find a word.
I simply stared
at him
and stuttered.
, , , , ,
‘You seem
in a hurry,
my friend,’
he said slowly.
, , , , ,
I nodded
towards the window.
It gave a prospect
across the moor
through a gap
in the plantation,
and revealed certain figures half a mile off straggling
through the heather.
, , , , ,
‘Ah,
I see,’
he said,
and took up a pair
of field-glasses through
which he patiently scrutinized the figures.
, , , , ,
‘A fugitive
from justice,
eh?
Well,
we’ll go
into the matter
at our leisure.
Meantime I object
to my privacy being broken
in upon
by the clumsy rural policeman.
Go
into my study,
and you
will see two doors facing you.
Take the one
on the left
and close it
behind you.
You
will be perfectly safe.’
, , , , ,
And this extraordinary man took up his pen again.
, , , , ,
I did
as I was bid,
and found myself
in a little dark chamber
which smelt
of chemicals,
and was lit only
by a tiny window high up
in the wall.
The door had swung
behind me
with a click
like the door
of a safe.
Once again I had found an unexpected sanctuary.
, , , , ,
All the same I was not comfortable.
There was something
about the old gentleman
which puzzled
and rather terrified me.
He had been too easy
and ready,
almost
as
if he had expected me.
And his eyes had been horribly intelligent.
, , , , ,
No sound came
to me
in
that dark place.
For all I knew the police might be searching the house,
and
if they did they
would want
to know
what was
behind this door.
I tried
to possess my soul
in patience,
and
to forget
how hungry I was.
, , , , ,
Then I took a more cheerful view.
The old gentleman
could scarcely refuse me a meal,
and I fell
to reconstructing my breakfast.
Bacon
and eggs
would content me,
but I wanted the better part
of a flitch
of bacon
and half a hundred eggs.
And then,
while my mouth was watering
in anticipation,
there was a click
and the door stood open.
, , , , ,
I emerged
into the sunlight
to find the master
of the house sitting
in a deep armchair
in the room he called his study,
and regarding me
with curious eyes.
, , , , ,
‘Have they gone?’
I asked.
, , , , ,
‘They have gone.
I convinced them
that you had crossed the hill.
I do not choose
that the police
should come
between me
and one whom I am delighted
to honour.
This is a lucky morning
for you,
Mr Richard Hannay.’
, , , , ,
As he spoke his eyelids seemed
to tremble and
to fall a little
over his keen grey eyes.
In a flash the phrase
of Scudder’s came back
to me,
when he had described the man he most dreaded
in the world.
He had said
that he ‘could hood his eyes
like a hawk’.
Then I saw
that I had walked straight
into the enemy’s headquarters.
, , , , ,
My first impulse was
to throttle the old ruffian
and make
for the open air.
He seemed
to anticipate my intention,
for he smiled gently,
and nodded
to the door
behind me.
, , , , ,
I turned,
and saw two men-servants
who had me covered
with pistols.
, , , , ,
He knew my name,
but he had never seen me before.
And
as the reflection darted
across my mind I saw a slender chance.
, , , , ,
‘I
don’t know
what you mean,’
I said roughly.
‘And
who are you calling Richard Hannay?
My name’s Ainslie.’
, , , , ,
‘So?’
he said,
still smiling.
‘But
of course you have others.
We
won’t quarrel
about a name.’
, , , , ,
I was pulling myself together now,
and I reflected
that my garb,
lacking coat
and waistcoat
and collar,
would
at any rate not betray me.
I put
on my surliest face
and shrugged my shoulders.
, , , , ,
‘I suppose you’re going
to give me up after all,
and I call it a damned dirty trick.
My God,
I wish I had never seen
that cursed motor-car!
Here’s the money
and be damned
to you,’
and I flung four sovereigns
on the table.
, , , , ,
He opened his eyes a little.
‘Oh no,
I shall not give you up.
My friends
and I
will have a little private settlement
with you,
that is all.
You know a little too much,
Mr Hannay.
You are a clever actor,
but not quite clever enough.’
, , , , ,
He spoke
with assurance,
but I
could see the dawning
of a doubt
in his mind.
, , , , ,
‘Oh,
for God’s sake stop jawing,’
I cried.
‘Everything’s
against me.
I haven’t had a bit
of luck
since I came
on shore
at Leith.
What’s the harm
in a poor devil
with an empty stomach picking up some money he finds
in a bust-up motor-car?
That’s all I done,
and
for
that I’ve been chivvied
for two days
by those blasted bobbies
over those blasted hills.
I tell you I’m fair sick
of it.
You
can do
what you like,
old boy!
Ned Ainslie’s got no fight left
in him.’
, , , , ,
I
could see
that the doubt was gaining.
, , , , ,
‘Will you oblige me
with the story
of your recent doings?’
he asked.
, , , , ,
‘I can’t,
guv’nor,’
I said
in a real beggar’s whine.
‘I’ve not had a bite
to eat
for two days.
Give me a mouthful
of food,
and
then you’ll hear God’s truth.’
, , , , ,
I must have showed my hunger
in my face,
for he signalled
to one
of the men
in the doorway.
A bit
of cold pie was brought
and a glass
of beer,
and I wolfed them down
like a pig
--or rather,
like Ned Ainslie,
for I was keeping up my character.
In the middle
of my meal he spoke suddenly
to me
in German,
but I turned
on him a face
as blank
as a stone wall.
, , , , ,
Then I told him my story
--how I had come off an Archangel ship
at Leith a week ago,
and was making my way overland
to my brother
at Wigtown.
I had run short
of cash
--I hinted vaguely
at a spree
--and I was pretty well
on my uppers
when I had come
on a hole
in a hedge,
and,
looking through,
had seen a big motor-car lying
in the burn.
I had poked about
to see
what had happened,
and had found three sovereigns lying
on the seat
and one
on the floor.
There was nobody there
or any sign
of an owner,
so I had pocketed the cash.
But somehow the law had got after me.
When I had tried
to change a sovereign
in a baker’s shop,
the woman had cried
on the police,
and a little later,
when I was washing my face
in a burn,
I had been nearly gripped,
and had only got away
by leaving my coat
and waistcoat
behind me.
, , , , ,
‘They
can have the money back,’
I cried,
‘for a fat lot
of good it’s done me.
Those perishers are all down
on a poor man.
Now,
if it had been you,
guv’nor,
that had found the quids,
nobody
would have troubled you.’
, , , , ,
‘You’re a good liar,
Hannay,’
he said.
, , , , ,
I flew
into a rage.
‘Stop fooling,
damn you!
I tell you my name’s Ainslie,
and I never heard
of anyone called Hannay
in my born days.
I’d sooner have the police
than you
with your Hannays
and your monkey-faced pistol tricks ...
No,
guv’nor,
I beg pardon,
I
don’t mean that.
I’m much obliged
to you
for the grub,
and I’ll thank you
to let me go now the coast’s clear.’
, , , , ,
It was obvious
that he was badly puzzled.
You see he had never seen me,
and my appearance must have altered considerably
from my photographs,
if he had got one
of them.
I was pretty smart
and well dressed
in London,
and now I was a regular tramp.
, , , , ,
‘I do not propose
to let you go.
If you are
what you say you are,
you
will soon have a chance
of clearing yourself.
If you are
what I believe you are,
I do not think you
will see the light much longer.’
, , , , ,
He rang a bell,
and a third servant appeared
from the veranda.
, , , , ,
‘I want the Lanchester
in five minutes,’
he said.
‘There
will be three
to luncheon.’
, , , , ,
Then he looked steadily
at me,
and
that was the hardest ordeal
of all.
, , , , ,
There was something weird
and devilish
in those eyes,
cold,
malignant,
unearthly,
and most hellishly clever.
They fascinated me
like the bright eyes
of a snake.
I had a strong impulse
to throw myself
on his mercy
and offer
to join his side,
and
if you consider the way I felt
about the whole thing you
will see
that that impulse must have been purely physical,
the weakness
of a brain mesmerized
and mastered
by a stronger spirit.
But I managed
to stick it out
and even
to grin.
, , , , ,
‘You’ll know me next time,
guv’nor,’
I said.
, , , , ,
‘Karl,’
he spoke
in German
to one
of the men
in the doorway,
‘you
will put this fellow
in the storeroom
till I return,
and you
will be answerable
to me
for his keeping.’
, , , , ,
I was marched out
of the room
with a pistol
at each ear.
, , , , ,
The storeroom was a damp chamber
in
what had been the old farmhouse.
There was no carpet
on the uneven floor,
and nothing
to sit down
on
but a school form.
It was black
as pitch,
for the windows were heavily shuttered.
I made out
by groping
that the walls were lined
with boxes
and barrels
and sacks
of some heavy stuff.
The whole place smelt
of mould
and disuse.
My gaolers turned the key
in the door,
and I
could hear them shifting their feet
as they stood
on guard outside.
, , , , ,
I sat down
in
that chilly darkness
in a very miserable frame
of mind.
The old boy had gone off
in a motor
to collect the two ruffians
who had interviewed me yesterday.
Now,
they had seen me
as the roadman,
and they
would remember me,
for I was
in the same rig.
What was a roadman doing twenty miles
from his beat,
pursued
by the police?
A question
or two
would put them
on the track.
Probably they had seen Mr Turnbull,
probably Marmie too;
most likely they
could link me up
with Sir Harry,
and
then the whole thing
would be crystal clear.
What chance had I
in this moorland house
with three desperadoes
and their armed servants?
, , , , ,
I began
to think wistfully
of the police,
now plodding
over the hills after my wraith.
They
at any rate were fellow-countrymen
and honest men,
and their tender mercies
would be kinder
than these ghoulish aliens.
But they wouldn’t have listened
to me.
That old devil
with the eyelids had not taken long
to get rid
of them.
I thought he probably had some kind
of graft
with the constabulary.
Most likely he had letters
from Cabinet Ministers saying he was
to be given every facility
for plotting
against Britain.
That’s the sort
of owlish way we run our politics
in the Old Country.
, , , , ,
The three
would be back
for lunch,
so I hadn’t more
than a couple
of hours
to wait.
It was simply waiting
on destruction,
for I
could see no way out
of this mess.
I wished
that I had Scudder’s courage,
for I am free
to confess I didn’t feel any great fortitude.
The only thing
that kept me going was
that I was pretty furious.
It made me boil
with rage
to think
of those three spies getting the pull
on me
like this.
I hoped that
at any rate I might be able
to twist one
of their necks
before they downed me.
, , , , ,
The more I thought
of it the angrier I grew,
and I had
to get up
and move
about the room.
I tried the shutters,
but they were the kind
that lock
with a key,
and I couldn’t move them.
From the outside came the faint clucking
of hens
in the warm sun.
Then I groped
among the sacks
and boxes.
I couldn’t open the latter,
and the sacks seemed
to be full
of things
like dog-biscuits
that smelt
of cinnamon.
But,
as I circumnavigated the room,
I found a handle
in the wall
which seemed worth investigating.
, , , , ,
It was the door
of a wall cupboard
--what they call a ‘press’
in Scotland
--and it was locked.
I shook it,
and it seemed rather flimsy.
For want
of something better
to do I put out my strength
on
that door,
getting some purchase
on the handle
by looping my braces round it.
Presently the thing gave
with a crash
which I thought
would bring
in my warders
to inquire.
I waited
for a bit,
and
then started
to explore the cupboard shelves.
, , , , ,
There was a multitude
of queer things there.
I found an odd vesta
or two
in my trouser pockets
and struck a light.
It was out
in a second,
but it showed me one thing.
There was a little stock
of electric torches
on one shelf.
I picked up one,
and found it was
in working order.
, , , , ,
With the torch
to help me I investigated further.
There were bottles
and cases
of queer-smelling stuffs,
chemicals no doubt
for experiments,
and
there were coils
of fine copper wire
and yanks
and yanks
of thin oiled silk.
There was a box
of detonators,
and a lot
of cord
for fuses.
Then away
at the back
of the shelf I found a stout brown cardboard box,
and inside it a wooden case.
I managed
to wrench it open,
and within lay half a dozen little grey bricks,
each a couple
of inches square.
, , , , ,
I took up one,
and found
that it crumbled easily
in my hand.
Then I smelt it
and put my tongue
to it.
After
that I sat down
to think.
I hadn’t been a mining engineer
for nothing,
and I knew lentonite
when I saw it.
, , , , ,
With one
of these bricks I
could blow the house
to smithereens.
I had used the stuff
in Rhodesia
and knew its power.
But the trouble was
that my knowledge wasn’t exact.
I had forgotten the proper charge
and the right way
of preparing it,
and I wasn’t sure
about the timing.
I had only a vague notion,
too,
as
to its power,
for though I had used it I had not handled it
with my own fingers.
, , , , ,
But it was a chance,
the only possible chance.
It was a mighty risk,
but
against it was an absolute black certainty.
If I used it the odds were,
as I reckoned,
about five
to one
in favour
of my blowing myself
into the tree-tops;
but
if I didn’t I
should very likely be occupying a six-foot hole
in the garden
by the evening.
That was the way I had
to look
at it.
The prospect was pretty dark either way,
but anyhow
there was a chance,
both
for myself
and
for my country.
, , , , ,
The remembrance
of little Scudder decided me.
It was
about the beastliest moment
of my life,
for I’m no good
at these cold-blooded resolutions.
Still I managed
to rake up the pluck
to set my teeth
and choke back the horrid doubts
that flooded
in
on me.
I simply shut off my mind
and pretended I was doing an experiment
as simple
as Guy Fawkes fireworks.
, , , , ,
I got a detonator,
and fixed it
to a couple
of feet
of fuse.
Then I took a quarter
of a lentonite brick,
and buried it near the door below one
of the sacks
in a crack
of the floor,
fixing the detonator
in it.
For all I knew half those boxes might be dynamite.
If the cupboard held such deadly explosives,
why not the boxes?
In
that case
there
would be a glorious skyward journey
for me
and the German servants
and
about an acre
of surrounding country.
There was also the risk
that the detonation might set off the other bricks
in the cupboard,
for I had forgotten most
that I knew
about lentonite.
But it didn’t do
to begin thinking
about the possibilities.
The odds were horrible,
but I had
to take them.
, , , , ,
I ensconced myself just below the sill
of the window,
and lit the fuse.
Then I waited
for a moment
or two.
There was dead silence
--only a shuffle
of heavy boots
in the passage,
and the peaceful cluck
of hens
from the warm out-of-doors.
I commended my soul
to my Maker,
and wondered
where I
would be
in five seconds ...
, , , , ,
A great wave
of heat seemed
to surge upwards
from the floor,
and hang
for a blistering instant
in the air.
Then the wall opposite me flashed
into a golden yellow
and dissolved
with a rending thunder
that hammered my brain
into a pulp.
Something dropped
on me,
catching the point
of my left shoulder.
, , , , ,
And
then I think I became unconscious.
, , , , ,
My stupor
can scarcely have lasted beyond a few seconds.
I felt myself being choked
by thick yellow fumes,
and struggled out
of the debris
to my feet.
Somewhere
behind me I felt fresh air.
The jambs
of the window had fallen,
and
through the ragged rent the smoke was pouring out
to the summer noon.
I stepped
over the broken lintel,
and found myself standing
in a yard
in a dense
and acrid fog.
I felt very sick
and ill,
but I
could move my limbs,
and I staggered blindly forward away
from the house.
, , , , ,
A small mill-lade ran
in a wooden aqueduct
at the other side
of the yard,
and
into this I fell.
The cool water revived me,
and I had just enough wits left
to think
of escape.
I squirmed up the lade
among the slippery green slime
till I reached the mill-wheel.
Then I wriggled
through the axle hole
into the old mill
and tumbled
on
to a bed
of chaff.
A nail caught the seat
of my trousers,
and I left a wisp
of heather-mixture
behind me.
, , , , ,
The mill had been long out
of use.
The ladders were rotten
with age,
and
in the loft the rats had gnawed great holes
in the floor.
Nausea shook me,
and a wheel
in my head kept turning,
while my left shoulder
and arm seemed
to be stricken
with the palsy.
I looked out
of the window
and saw a fog still hanging
over the house
and smoke escaping
from an upper window.
Please God I had set the place
on fire,
for I
could hear confused cries coming
from the other side.
, , , , ,
But I had no time
to linger,
since this mill was obviously a bad hiding-place.
Anyone looking
for me
would naturally follow the lade,
and I made certain the search
would begin
as soon
as they found
that my body was not
in the storeroom.
From another window I saw that
on the far side
of the mill stood an old stone dovecot.
If I
could get
there without leaving tracks I might find a hiding-place,
for I argued
that my enemies,
if they thought I
could move,
would conclude I had made
for open country,
and
would go seeking me
on the moor.
, , , , ,
I crawled down the broken ladder,
scattering chaff
behind me
to cover my footsteps.
I did the same
on the mill floor,
and
on the threshold
where the door hung
on broken hinges.
Peeping out,
I saw
that
between me
and the dovecot was a piece
of bare cobbled ground,
where no footmarks
would show.
Also it was mercifully hid
by the mill buildings
from any view
from the house.
I slipped
across the space,
got
to the back
of the dovecot
and prospected a way
of ascent.
, , , , ,
That was one
of the hardest jobs I ever took on.
My shoulder
and arm ached
like hell,
and I was so sick
and giddy
that I was always
on the verge
of falling.
But I managed it somehow.
By the use
of out-jutting stones
and gaps
in the masonry
and a tough ivy root I got
to the top
in the end.
There was a little parapet behind
which I found space
to lie down.
Then I proceeded
to go off
into an old-fashioned swoon.
, , , , ,
I woke
with a burning head
and the sun glaring
in my face.
For a long time I lay motionless,
for those horrible fumes seemed
to have loosened my joints
and dulled my brain.
Sounds came
to me
from the house
--men speaking throatily
and the throbbing
of a stationary car.
There was a little gap
in the parapet
to
which I wriggled,
and
from
which I had some sort
of prospect
of the yard.
I saw figures come out
--a servant
with his head bound up,
and
then a younger man
in knickerbockers.
They were looking
for something,
and moved
towards the mill.
Then one
of them caught sight
of the wisp
of cloth
on the nail,
and cried out
to the other.
They both went back
to the house,
and brought two more
to look
at it.
I saw the rotund figure
of my late captor,
and I thought I made out the man
with the lisp.
I noticed
that all had pistols.
, , , , ,
For half an hour they ransacked the mill.
I
could hear them kicking
over the barrels
and pulling up the rotten planking.
Then they came outside,
and stood just below the dovecot arguing fiercely.
The servant
with the bandage was being soundly rated.
I heard them fiddling
with the door
of the dovecote
and
for one horrid moment I fancied they were coming up.
Then they thought better
of it,
and went back
to the house.
, , , , ,
All
that long blistering afternoon I lay baking
on the rooftop.
Thirst was my chief torment.
My tongue was
like a stick,
and
to make it worse I
could hear the cool drip
of water
from the mill-lade.
I watched the course
of the little stream
as it came
in
from the moor,
and my fancy followed it
to the top
of the glen,
where it must issue
from an icy fountain fringed
with cool ferns
and mosses.
I
would have given a thousand pounds
to plunge my face
into that.
, , , , ,
I had a fine prospect
of the whole ring
of moorland.
I saw the car speed away
with two occupants,
and a man
on a hill pony riding east.
I judged they were looking
for me,
and I wished them joy
of their quest.
, , , , ,
But I saw something else more interesting.
The house stood almost
on the summit
of a swell
of moorland
which crowned a sort
of plateau,
and
there was no higher point nearer
than the big hills six miles off.
The actual summit,
as I have mentioned,
was a biggish clump
of trees
--firs mostly,
with a few ashes
and beeches.
On the dovecot I was almost
on a level
with the tree-tops,
and
could see
what lay beyond.
The wood was not solid,
but only a ring,
and inside was an oval
of green turf,
for all the world
like a big cricket-field.
, , , , ,
I didn’t take long
to guess
what it was.
It was an aerodrome,
and a secret one.
The place had been most cunningly chosen.
For suppose anyone were watching an aeroplane descending here,
he
would think it had gone
over the hill beyond the trees.
As the place was
on the top
of a rise
in the midst
of a big amphitheatre,
any observer
from any direction
would conclude it had passed out
of view
behind the hill.
Only a man very close
at hand
would realize
that the aeroplane had not gone over
but had descended
in the midst
of the wood.
An observer
with a telescope
on one
of the higher hills might have discovered the truth,
but only herds went there,
and herds do not carry spy-glasses.
When I looked
from the dovecot I
could see far away a blue line
which I knew was the sea,
and I grew furious
to think
that our enemies had this secret conning-tower
to rake our waterways.
, , , , ,
Then I reflected that
if
that aeroplane came back the chances were ten
to one
that I
would be discovered.
So
through the afternoon I lay
and prayed
for the coming
of darkness,
and glad I was
when the sun went down
over the big western hills
and the twilight haze crept
over the moor.
The aeroplane was late.
The gloaming was far advanced
when I heard the beat
of wings
and saw it volplaning downward
to its home
in the wood.
Lights twinkled
for a bit
and
there was much coming
and going
from the house.
Then the dark fell,
and silence.
, , , , ,
Thank God it was a black night.
The moon was well
on its last quarter
and
would not rise
till late.
My thirst was too great
to allow me
to tarry,
so
about nine o’clock,
so far
as I
could judge,
I started
to descend.
It wasn’t easy,
and half-way down I heard the back door
of the house open,
and saw the gleam
of a lantern
against the mill wall.
For some agonizing minutes I hung
by the ivy
and prayed
that whoever it was
would not come round
by the dovecot.
Then the light disappeared,
and I dropped
as softly
as I could
on
to the hard soil
of the yard.
, , , , ,
I crawled
on my belly
in the lee
of a stone dyke
till I reached the fringe
of trees
which surrounded the house.
If I had known how
to do it I
would have tried
to put
that aeroplane out
of action,
but I realized
that any attempt
would probably be futile.
I was pretty certain
that
there
would be some kind
of defence round the house,
so I went
through the wood
on hands
and knees,
feeling carefully every inch
before me.
It was
as well,
for presently I came
on a wire
about two feet
from the ground.
If I had tripped
over that,
it
would doubtless have rung some bell
in the house
and I
would have been captured.
, , , , ,
A hundred yards farther
on I found another wire cunningly placed
on the edge
of a small stream.
Beyond
that lay the moor,
and
in five minutes I was deep
in bracken
and heather.
Soon I was round the shoulder
of the rise,
in the little glen
from
which the mill-lade flowed.
Ten minutes later my face was
in the spring,
and I was soaking down pints
of the blessed water.
, , , , ,
But I did not stop
till I had put half a dozen miles
between me
and
that accursed dwelling.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Dry-Fly Fisherman
I sat down
on a hill-top
and took stock
of my position.
I wasn’t feeling very happy,
for my natural thankfulness
at my escape was clouded
by my severe bodily discomfort.
Those lentonite fumes had fairly poisoned me,
and the baking hours
on the dovecot hadn’t helped matters.
I had a crushing headache,
and felt
as sick
as a cat.
Also my shoulder was
in a bad way.
At first I thought it was only a bruise,
but it seemed
to be swelling,
and I had no use
of my left arm.
, , , , ,
My plan was
to seek Mr Turnbull’s cottage,
recover my garments,
and especially Scudder’s note-book,
and
then make
for the main line
and get back
to the south.
It seemed
to me
that the sooner I got
in touch
with the Foreign Office man,
Sir Walter Bullivant,
the better.
I didn’t see
how I
could get more proof
than I had got already.
He must just take
or leave my story,
and anyway,
with him I
would be
in better hands
than those devilish Germans.
I had begun
to feel quite kindly
towards the British police.
, , , , ,
It was a wonderful starry night,
and I had not much difficulty
about the road.
Sir Harry’s map had given me the lie
of the land,
and all I had
to do was
to steer a point
or two west
of south-west
to come
to the stream
where I had met the roadman.
In all these travels I never knew the names
of the places,
but I believe this stream was no less
than the upper waters
of the river Tweed.
I calculated I must be
about eighteen miles distant,
and
that meant I
could not get
there
before morning.
So I must lie up a day somewhere,
for I was too outrageous a figure
to be seen
in the sunlight.
I had neither coat,
waistcoat,
collar,
nor hat,
my trousers were badly torn,
and my face
and hands were black
with the explosion.
I daresay I had other beauties,
for my eyes felt
as
if they were furiously bloodshot.
Altogether I was no spectacle
for God-fearing citizens
to see
on a highroad.
, , , , ,
Very soon after daybreak I made an attempt
to clean myself
in a hill burn,
and
then approached a herd’s cottage,
for I was feeling the need
of food.
The herd was away
from home,
and his wife was alone,
with no neighbour
for five miles.
She was a decent old body,
and a plucky one,
for though she got a fright
when she saw me,
she had an axe handy,
and
would have used it
on any evil-doer.
I told her
that I had had a fall
--I didn’t say how
--and she saw
by my looks
that I was pretty sick.
Like a true Samaritan she asked no questions,
but gave me a bowl
of milk
with a dash
of whisky
in it,
and let me sit
for a little
by her kitchen fire.
She
would have bathed my shoulder,
but it ached so badly
that I
would not let her touch it.
, , , , ,
I
don’t know
what she took me for
--a repentant burglar,
perhaps;
for
when I wanted
to pay her
for the milk
and tendered a sovereign
which was the smallest coin I had,
she shook her head
and said something
about ‘giving it
to them
that had a right
to it’.
At this I protested so strongly
that I think she believed me honest,
for she took the money
and gave me a warm new plaid
for it,
and an old hat
of her man’s.
She showed me how
to wrap the plaid
around my shoulders,
and
when I left
that cottage I was the living image
of the kind
of Scotsman you see
in the illustrations
to Burns’s poems.
But
at any rate I was more
or less clad.
, , , , ,
It was
as well,
for the weather changed
before midday
to a thick drizzle
of rain.
I found shelter below an overhanging rock
in the crook
of a burn,
where a drift
of dead brackens made a tolerable bed.
There I managed
to sleep
till nightfall,
waking very cramped
and wretched,
with my shoulder gnawing
like a toothache.
I ate the oatcake
and cheese the old wife had given me
and set out again just
before the darkening.
, , , , ,
I pass
over the miseries
of
that night
among the wet hills.
There were no stars
to steer by,
and I had
to do the best I could
from my memory
of the map.
Twice I lost my way,
and I had some nasty falls
into peat-bogs.
I had only
about ten miles
to go
as the crow flies,
but my mistakes made it nearer twenty.
The last bit was completed
with set teeth
and a very light
and dizzy head.
But I managed it,
and
in the early dawn I was knocking
at Mr Turnbull’s door.
The mist lay close
and thick,
and
from the cottage I
could not see the highroad.
, , , , ,
Mr Turnbull himself opened
to me
--sober
and something more
than sober.
He was primly dressed
in an ancient
but well-tended suit
of black;
he had been shaved not later
than the night before;
he wore a linen collar;
and
in his left hand he carried a pocket Bible.
At first he did not recognize me.
, , , , ,
‘Whae are ye
that comes stravaigin’ here
on the Sabbath mornin’?’
he asked.
, , , , ,
I had lost all count
of the days.
So the Sabbath was the reason
for this strange decorum.
, , , , ,
My head was swimming so wildly
that I
could not frame a coherent answer.
But he recognized me,
and he saw
that I was ill.
, , , , ,
‘Hae ye got my specs?’
he asked.
, , , , ,
I fetched them out
of my trouser pocket
and gave him them.
, , , , ,
‘Ye’ll hae come
for your jaicket
and westcoat,’
he said.
‘Come in-bye.
Losh,
man,
ye’re terrible dune i’ the legs.
Haud up
till I get ye
to a chair.’
, , , , ,
I perceived I was
in
for a bout
of malaria.
I had a good deal
of fever
in my bones,
and the wet night had brought it out,
while my shoulder
and the effects
of the fumes combined
to make me feel pretty bad.
Before I knew,
Mr Turnbull was helping me off
with my clothes,
and putting me
to bed
in one
of the two cupboards
that lined the kitchen walls.
, , , , ,
He was a true friend
in need,
that old roadman.
His wife was dead years ago,
and
since his daughter’s marriage he lived alone.
, , , , ,
For the better part
of ten days he did all the rough nursing I needed.
I simply wanted
to be left
in peace
while the fever took its course,
and
when my skin was cool again I found
that the bout had more
or less cured my shoulder.
But it was a baddish go,
and though I was out
of bed
in five days,
it took me some time
to get my legs again.
, , , , ,
He went out each morning,
leaving me milk
for the day,
and locking the door
behind him;
and came
in in the evening
to sit silent
in the chimney corner.
Not a soul came near the place.
When I was getting better,
he never bothered me
with a question.
Several times he fetched me a two days’ old SCOTSMAN,
and I noticed
that the interest
in the Portland Place murder seemed
to have died down.
There was no mention
of it,
and I
could find very little
about anything except a thing called the General Assembly
--some ecclesiastical spree,
I gathered.
, , , , ,
One day he produced my belt
from a lockfast drawer.
‘There’s a terrible heap o’ siller in’t,’
he said.
‘Ye’d better coont it
to see it’s a’ there.’
, , , , ,
He never
even sought my name.
I asked him
if anybody had been
around making inquiries subsequent
to my spell
at the road-making.
, , , , ,
‘Ay,
there was a man
in a motor-cawr.
He speired whae had ta’en my place
that day,
and I let
on I thocht him daft.
But he keepit
on
at me,
and syne I said he maun be thinkin’ o’ my gude-brither frae the Cleuch
that whiles lent me a haun’.
He was a wersh-lookin’ sowl,
and I couldna understand the half o’ his English tongue.’
, , , , ,
I was getting restless those last days,
and
as soon
as I felt myself fit I decided
to be off.
That was not
till the twelfth day
of June,
and
as luck
would have it a drover went past
that morning taking some cattle
to Moffat.
He was a man named Hislop,
a friend
of Turnbull’s,
and he came
in
to his breakfast
with us
and offered
to take me
with him.
, , , , ,
I made Turnbull accept five pounds
for my lodging,
and a hard job I had
of it.
There never was a more independent being.
He grew positively rude
when I pressed him,
and shy
and red,
and took the money
at last without a thank you.
When I told him
how much I owed him,
he grunted something
about ‘ae guid turn deservin’ anither’.
You
would have thought
from our leave-taking
that we had parted
in disgust.
, , , , ,
Hislop was a cheery soul,
who chattered all the way
over the pass
and down the sunny vale
of Annan.
I talked
of Galloway markets
and sheep prices,
and he made up his mind I was a ‘pack-shepherd’
from those parts
--whatever
that may be.
My plaid
and my old hat,
as I have said,
gave me a fine theatrical Scots look.
But driving cattle is a mortally slow job,
and we took the better part
of the day
to cover a dozen miles.
, , , , ,
If I had not had such an anxious heart I
would have enjoyed
that time.
It was shining blue weather,
with a constantly changing prospect
of brown hills
and far green meadows,
and a continual sound
of larks
and curlews
and falling streams.
But I had no mind
for the summer,
and little
for Hislop’s conversation,
for
as the fateful fifteenth
of June drew near I was overweighed
with the hopeless difficulties
of my enterprise.
, , , , ,
I got some dinner
in a humble Moffat public-house,
and walked the two miles
to the junction
on the main line.
The night express
for the south was not due
till near midnight,
and
to fill up the time I went up
on the hillside
and fell asleep,
for the walk had tired me.
I all
but slept too long,
and had
to run
to the station
and catch the train
with two minutes
to spare.
The feel
of the hard third-class cushions
and the smell
of stale tobacco cheered me up wonderfully.
At any rate,
I felt now
that I was getting
to grips
with my job.
, , , , ,
I was decanted
at Crewe
in the small hours
and had
to wait
till six
to get a train
for Birmingham.
In the afternoon I got
to Reading,
and changed
into a local train
which journeyed
into the deeps
of Berkshire.
Presently I was
in a land
of lush water-meadows
and slow reedy streams.
About eight o’clock
in the evening,
a weary
and travel-stained being
--a cross
between a farm-labourer
and a vet
--with a checked black-and-white plaid
over his arm
(for I did not dare
to wear it south
of the Border),
descended
at the little station
of Artinswell.
There were several people
on the platform,
and I thought I had better wait
to ask my way
till I was clear
of the place.
, , , , ,
The road led
through a wood
of great beeches
and
then
into a shallow valley,
with the green backs
of downs peeping
over the distant trees.
After Scotland the air smelt heavy
and flat,
but infinitely sweet,
for the limes
and chestnuts
and lilac bushes were domes
of blossom.
Presently I came
to a bridge,
below
which a clear slow stream flowed
between snowy beds
of water-buttercups.
A little
above it was a mill;
and the lasher made a pleasant cool sound
in the scented dusk.
Somehow the place soothed me
and put me
at my ease.
I fell
to whistling
as I looked
into the green depths,
and the tune
which came
to my lips was ‘Annie Laurie’.
, , , , ,
A fisherman came up
from the waterside,
and
as he neared me he too began
to whistle.
The tune was infectious,
for he followed my suit.
He was a huge man
in untidy old flannels
and a wide-brimmed hat,
with a canvas bag slung
on his shoulder.
He nodded
to me,
and I thought I had never seen a shrewder
or better-tempered face.
He leaned his delicate ten-foot split-cane rod
against the bridge,
and looked
with me
at the water.
, , , , ,
‘Clear,
isn’t it?’
he said pleasantly.
‘I back our Kenner any day
against the Test.
Look
at
that big fellow.
Four pounds
if he’s an ounce.
But the evening rise is over
and you can’t tempt ‘em.’
, , , , ,
‘I
don’t see him,’
said I.
‘Look!
There!
A yard
from the reeds just above
that stickle.’
, , , , ,
‘I’ve got him now.
You might swear he was a black stone.’
, , , , ,
‘So,’
he said,
and whistled another bar
of ‘Annie Laurie’.
, , , , ,
‘Twisdon’s the name,
isn’t it?’
he said
over his shoulder,
his eyes still fixed
on the stream.
, , , , ,
‘No,’
I said.
‘I mean
to say,
Yes.’
I had forgotten all
about my alias.
, , , , ,
‘It’s a wise conspirator
that knows his own name,’
he observed,
grinning broadly
at a moor-hen
that emerged
from the bridge’s shadow.
, , , , ,
I stood up
and looked
at him,
at the square,
cleft jaw
and broad,
lined brow
and the firm folds
of cheek,
and began
to think
that here
at last was an ally worth having.
His whimsical blue eyes seemed
to go very deep.
, , , , ,
Suddenly he frowned.
‘I call it disgraceful,’
he said,
raising his voice.
‘Disgraceful
that an able-bodied man
like you
should dare
to beg.
You
can get a meal
from my kitchen,
but you’ll get no money
from me.’
, , , , ,
A dog-cart was passing,
driven
by a young man
who raised his whip
to salute the fisherman.
When he had gone,
he picked up his rod.
, , , , ,
‘That’s my house,’
he said,
pointing
to a white gate a hundred yards on.
‘Wait five minutes
and
then go round
to the back door.’
And
with
that he left me.
, , , , ,
I did
as I was bidden.
I found a pretty cottage
with a lawn running down
to the stream,
and a perfect jungle
of guelder-rose
and lilac flanking the path.
The back door stood open,
and a grave butler was awaiting me.
, , , , ,
‘Come this way,
Sir,’
he said,
and he led me
along a passage
and up a back staircase
to a pleasant bedroom looking
towards the river.
There I found a complete outfit laid out
for me
--dress clothes
with all the fixings,
a brown flannel suit,
shirts,
collars,
ties,
shaving things
and hair-brushes,
even a pair
of patent shoes.
‘Sir Walter thought
as
how Mr Reggie’s things
would fit you,
Sir,’
said the butler.
‘He keeps some clothes ‘ere,
for he comes regular
on the week-ends.
There’s a bathroom next door,
and I’ve prepared a ‘ot bath.
Dinner
in ‘alf an hour,
Sir.
You’ll ‘ear the gong.’
, , , , ,
The grave being withdrew,
and I sat down
in a chintz-covered easy-chair
and gaped.
It was
like a pantomime,
to come suddenly out
of beggardom
into this orderly comfort.
Obviously Sir Walter believed
in me,
though
why he did I
could not guess.
I looked
at myself
in the mirror
and saw a wild,
haggard brown fellow,
with a fortnight’s ragged beard,
and dust
in ears
and eyes,
collarless,
vulgarly shirted,
with shapeless old tweed clothes
and boots
that had not been cleaned
for the better part
of a month.
I made a fine tramp
and a fair drover;
and here I was ushered
by a prim butler
into this temple
of gracious ease.
And the best
of it was
that they did not
even know my name.
, , , , ,
I resolved not
to puzzle my head but
to take the gifts the gods had provided.
I shaved
and bathed luxuriously,
and got
into the dress clothes
and clean crackling shirt,
which fitted me not so badly.
By the time I had finished the looking-glass showed a not unpersonable young man.
, , , , ,
Sir Walter awaited me
in a dusky dining-room
where a little round table was lit
with silver candles.
The sight
of him
--so respectable
and established
and secure,
the embodiment
of law
and government
and all the conventions
--took me aback
and made me feel an interloper.
He couldn’t know the truth
about me,
or he wouldn’t treat me
like this.
I simply
could not accept his hospitality
on false pretences.
, , , , ,
‘I’m more obliged
to you
than I
can say,
but I’m bound
to make things clear,’
I said.
‘I’m an innocent man,
but I’m wanted
by the police.
I’ve got
to tell you this,
and I
won’t be surprised
if you kick me out.’
, , , , ,
He smiled.
‘That’s all right.
Don’t let
that interfere
with your appetite.
We
can talk
about these things after dinner.’
I never ate a meal
with greater relish,
for I had had nothing all day
but railway sandwiches.
Sir Walter did me proud,
for we drank a good champagne
and had some uncommon fine port afterwards.
It made me
almost hysterical
to be sitting there,
waited
on
by a footman
and a sleek butler,
and remember
that I had been living
for three weeks
like a brigand,
with every man’s hand
against me.
I told Sir Walter
about tiger-fish
in the Zambesi
that bite off your fingers
if you give them a chance,
and we discussed sport up
and down the globe,
for he had hunted a bit
in his day.
, , , , ,
We went
to his study
for coffee,
a jolly room full
of books
and trophies
and untidiness
and comfort.
I made up my mind that
if ever I got rid
of this business
and had a house
of my own,
I
would create just such a room.
Then
when the coffee-cups were cleared away,
and we had got our cigars alight,
my host swung his long legs
over the side
of his chair
and bade me get started
with my yarn.
, , , , ,
‘I’ve obeyed Harry’s instructions,’
he said,
‘and the bribe he offered me was
that you
would tell me something
to wake me up.
I’m ready,
Mr Hannay.’
, , , , ,
I noticed
with a start
that he called me
by my proper name.
, , , , ,
I began
at the very beginning.
I told
of my boredom
in London,
and the night I had come back
to find Scudder gibbering
on my doorstep.
I told him all Scudder had told me
about Karolides
and the Foreign Office conference,
and
that made him purse his lips
and grin.
, , , , ,
Then I got
to the murder,
and he grew solemn again.
He heard all
about the milkman
and my time
in Galloway,
and my deciphering Scudder’s notes
at the inn.
, , , , ,
‘You’ve got them here?’
he asked sharply,
and drew a long breath
when I whipped the little book
from my pocket.
, , , , ,
I said nothing
of the contents.
Then I described my meeting
with Sir Harry,
and the speeches
at the hall.
At
that he laughed uproariously.
, , , , ,
‘Harry talked dashed nonsense,
did he?
I quite believe it.
He’s
as good a chap
as ever breathed,
but his idiot
of an uncle has stuffed his head
with maggots.
Go on,
Mr Hannay.’
, , , , ,
My day
as roadman excited him a bit.
He made me describe the two fellows
in the car very closely,
and seemed
to be raking back
in his memory.
He grew merry again
when he heard
of the fate
of
that ass Jopley.
, , , , ,
But the old man
in the moorland house solemnized him.
Again I had
to describe every detail
of his appearance.
, , , , ,
‘Bland
and bald-headed
and hooded his eyes
like a bird ...
He sounds a sinister wild-fowl!
And you dynamited his hermitage,
after he had saved you
from the police.
Spirited piece
of work,
that!’ Presently I reached the end
of my wanderings.
He got up slowly,
and looked down
at me
from the hearth-rug.
, , , , ,
‘You may dismiss the police
from your mind,’
he said.
‘You’re
in no danger
from the law
of this land.’
, , , , ,
‘Great Scot!’ I cried.
‘Have they got the murderer?’
, , , , ,
‘No. But
for the last fortnight they have dropped you
from the list
of possibles.’
, , , , ,
‘Why?’
I asked
in amazement.
, , , , ,
‘Principally
because I received a letter
from Scudder.
I knew something
of the man,
and he did several jobs
for me.
He was half crank,
half genius,
but he was wholly honest.
The trouble
about him was his partiality
for playing a lone hand.
That made him pretty well useless
in any Secret Service
--a pity,
for he had uncommon gifts.
I think he was the bravest man
in the world,
for he was always shivering
with fright,
and yet nothing
would choke him off.
I had a letter
from him
on the 31st
of May.’
, , , , ,
‘But he had been dead a week
by then.’
, , , , ,
‘The letter was written
and posted
on the 23rd.
He evidently did not anticipate an immediate decease.
His communications usually took a week
to reach me,
for they were sent
under cover
to Spain
and then
to Newcastle.
He had a mania,
you know,
for concealing his tracks.’
, , , , ,
‘What did he say?’
I stammered.
, , , , ,
‘Nothing.
Merely
that he was
in danger,
but had found shelter
with a good friend,
and
that I
would hear
from him
before the 15th
of June.
He gave me no address,
but said he was living near Portland Place.
I think his object was
to clear you
if anything happened.
When I got it I went
to Scotland Yard,
went
over the details
of the inquest,
and concluded
that you were the friend.
We made inquiries
about you,
Mr Hannay,
and found you were respectable.
I thought I knew the motives
for your disappearance
--not only the police,
the other one too
--and
when I got Harry’s scrawl I guessed
at the rest.
I have been expecting you any time this past week.’
You
can imagine
what a load this took off my mind.
I felt a free man once more,
for I was now up
against my country’s enemies only,
and not my country’s law.
, , , , ,
‘Now let us have the little note-book,’
said Sir Walter.
, , , , ,
It took us a good hour
to work
through it.
I explained the cypher,
and he was jolly quick
at picking it up.
He emended my reading
of it
on several points,
but I had been fairly correct,
on the whole.
His face was very grave
before he had finished,
and he sat silent
for a while.
, , , , ,
‘I
don’t know what
to make
of it,’
he said
at last.
‘He is right
about one thing
--what is going
to happen the day after tomorrow.
How the devil
can it have got known?
That is ugly enough
in itself.
But all this
about war
and the Black Stone
--it reads
like some wild melodrama.
If only I had more confidence
in Scudder’s judgement.
The trouble
about him was
that he was too romantic.
He had the artistic temperament,
and wanted a story
to be better
than God meant it
to be.
He had a lot
of odd biases,
too.
Jews,
for example,
made him see red.
Jews
and the high finance.
, , , , ,
‘The Black Stone,’
he repeated.
‘DER SCHWARZE STEIN.
It’s
like a penny novelette.
And all this stuff
about Karolides.
That is the weak part
of the tale,
for I happen
to know
that the virtuous Karolides is likely
to outlast us both.
There is no State
in Europe
that wants him gone.
Besides,
he has just been playing up
to Berlin
and Vienna
and giving my Chief some uneasy moments.
No!
Scudder has gone off the track there.
Frankly,
Hannay,
I
don’t believe
that part
of his story.
There’s some nasty business afoot,
and he found out too much
and lost his life
over it.
But I am ready
to take my oath
that it is ordinary spy work.
A certain great European Power makes a hobby
of her spy system,
and her methods are not too particular.
Since she pays
by piecework her blackguards are not likely
to stick
at a murder
or two.
They want our naval dispositions
for their collection
at the Marineamt;
but they
will be pigeon-holed
--nothing more.’
, , , , ,
Just
then the butler entered the room.
, , , , ,
‘There’s a trunk-call
from London,
Sir Walter.
It’s Mr ‘Eath,
and he wants
to speak
to you personally.’
, , , , ,
My host went off
to the telephone.
, , , , ,
He returned
in five minutes
with a whitish face.
‘I apologize
to the shade
of Scudder,’
he said.
‘Karolides was shot dead this evening
at a few minutes after seven.’
, , , , ,
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Coming
of the Black Stone
I came down
to breakfast next morning,
after eight hours
of blessed dreamless sleep,
to find Sir Walter decoding a telegram
in the midst
of muffins
and marmalade.
His fresh rosiness
of yesterday seemed a thought tarnished.
, , , , ,
‘I had a busy hour
on the telephone after you went
to bed,’
he said.
‘I got my Chief
to speak
to the First Lord
and the Secretary
for War,
and they are bringing Royer
over a day sooner.
This wire clinches it.
He
will be
in London
at five.
Odd
that the code word
for a SOUS-CHEF D/ETAT MAJOR-GENERAL
should be “Porker”.’
, , , , ,
He directed me
to the hot dishes
and went on.
, , , , ,
‘Not
that I think it
will do much good.
If your friends were clever enough
to find out the first arrangement they are clever enough
to discover the change.
I
would give my head
to know
where the leak is.
We believed
there were only five men
in England
who knew
about Royer’s visit,
and you may be certain
there were fewer
in France,
for they manage these things better there.’
, , , , ,
While I ate he continued
to talk,
making me
to my surprise a present
of his full confidence.
, , , , ,
‘Can the dispositions not be changed?’
I asked.
, , , , ,
‘They could,’
he said.
‘But we want
to avoid that
if possible.
They are the result
of immense thought,
and no alteration
would be
as good.
Besides,
on one
or two points change is simply impossible.
Still,
something
could be done,
I suppose,
if it were absolutely necessary.
But you see the difficulty,
Hannay.
Our enemies are not going
to be such fools as
to pick Royer’s pocket
or any childish game
like that.
They know
that
would mean a row
and put us
on our guard.
Their aim is
to get the details without any one
of us knowing,
so
that Royer
will go back
to Paris
in the belief
that the whole business is still deadly secret.
If they can’t do
that they fail,
for,
once we suspect,
they know
that the whole thing must be altered.’
, , , , ,
‘Then we must stick
by the Frenchman’s side
till he is home again,’
I said.
‘If they thought they
could get the information
in Paris they
would try there.
It means
that they have some deep scheme
on foot
in London
which they reckon is going
to win out.’
, , , , ,
‘Royer dines
with my Chief,
and
then comes
to my house
where four people
will see him
--Whittaker
from the Admiralty,
myself,
Sir Arthur Drew,
and General Winstanley.
The First Lord is ill,
and has gone
to Sheringham.
At my house he
will get a certain document
from Whittaker,
and after
that he
will be motored
to Portsmouth
where a destroyer
will take him
to Havre.
His journey is too important
for the ordinary boat-train.
He
will never be left unattended
for a moment
till he is safe
on French soil.
The same
with Whittaker
till he meets Royer.
That is the best we
can do,
and it’s hard
to see
how there
can be any miscarriage.
But I
don’t mind admitting
that I’m horribly nervous.
This murder
of Karolides
will play the deuce
in the chancelleries
of Europe.’
, , , , ,
After breakfast he asked me
if I
could drive a car.
‘Well,
you’ll be my chauffeur today
and wear Hudson’s rig.
You’re
about his size.
You have a hand
in this business
and we are taking no risks.
There are desperate men
against us,
who
will not respect the country retreat
of an overworked official.’
, , , , ,
When I first came
to London I had bought a car
and amused myself
with running
about the south
of England,
so I knew something
of the geography.
I took Sir Walter
to town
by the Bath Road
and made good going.
It was a soft breathless June morning,
with a promise
of sultriness later,
but it was delicious enough swinging
through the little towns
with their freshly watered streets,
and past the summer gardens
of the Thames valley.
I landed Sir Walter
at his house
in Queen Anne’s Gate punctually
by half-past eleven.
The butler was coming up
by train
with the luggage.
, , , , ,
The first thing he did was
to take me round
to Scotland Yard.
There we saw a prim gentleman,
with a clean-shaven,
lawyer’s face.
, , , , ,
‘I’ve brought you the Portland Place murderer,’
was Sir Walter’s introduction.
, , , , ,
The reply was a wry smile.
‘It
would have been a welcome present,
Bullivant.
This,
I presume,
is Mr Richard Hannay,
who
for some days greatly interested my department.’
, , , , ,
‘Mr Hannay
will interest it again.
He has much
to tell you,
but not today.
For certain grave reasons his tale must wait
for four hours.
Then,
I
can promise you,
you
will be entertained
and possibly edified.
I want you
to assure Mr Hannay
that he
will suffer no further inconvenience.’
, , , , ,
This assurance was promptly given.
‘You
can take up your life
where you left off,’
I was told.
‘Your flat,
which probably you no longer wish
to occupy,
is waiting
for you,
and your man is still there.
As you were never publicly accused,
we considered
that
there was no need
of a public exculpation.
But
on that,
of course,
you must please yourself.’
, , , , ,
‘We may want your assistance later on,
MacGillivray,’
Sir Walter said
as we left.
, , , , ,
Then he turned me loose.
, , , , ,
‘Come
and see me tomorrow,
Hannay.
I needn’t tell you
to keep deadly quiet.
If I were you I
would go
to bed,
for you must have considerable arrears
of sleep
to overtake.
You had better lie low,
for
if one
of your Black Stone friends saw you
there might be trouble.’
, , , , ,
I felt curiously
at a loose end.
At first it was very pleasant
to be a free man,
able
to go
where I wanted without fearing anything.
I had only been a month
under the ban
of the law,
and it was quite enough
for me.
I went
to the Savoy
and ordered very carefully a very good luncheon,
and
then smoked the best cigar the house
could provide.
But I was still feeling nervous.
When I saw anybody look
at me
in the lounge,
I grew shy,
and wondered
if they were thinking
about the murder.
, , , , ,
After
that I took a taxi
and drove miles away up
into North London.
I walked back
through fields
and lines
of villas
and terraces
and
then slums
and mean streets,
and it took me pretty nearly two hours.
All the
while my restlessness was growing worse.
I felt
that great things,
tremendous things,
were happening
or about
to happen,
and I,
who was the cog-wheel
of the whole business,
was out
of it.
Royer
would be landing
at Dover,
Sir Walter
would be making plans
with the few people
in England
who were
in the secret,
and somewhere
in the darkness the Black Stone
would be working.
I felt the sense
of danger
and impending calamity,
and I had the curious feeling,
too,
that I alone
could avert it,
alone
could grapple
with it.
But I was out
of the game now.
How
could it be otherwise?
It was not likely
that Cabinet Ministers
and Admiralty Lords
and Generals
would admit me
to their councils.
, , , , ,
I actually began
to wish
that I
could run up
against one
of my three enemies.
That
would lead
to developments.
I felt
that I wanted enormously
to have a vulgar scrap
with those gentry,
where I
could hit out
and flatten something.
I was rapidly getting
into a very bad temper.
, , , , ,
I didn’t feel
like going back
to my flat.
That had
to be faced some time,
but
as I still had sufficient money I thought I
would put it off
till next morning,
and go
to a hotel
for the night.
, , , , ,
My irritation lasted
through dinner,
which I had
at a restaurant
in Jermyn Street.
I was no longer hungry,
and let several courses pass untasted.
I drank the best part
of a bottle
of Burgundy,
but it did nothing
to cheer me.
An abominable restlessness had taken possession
of me.
Here was I,
a very ordinary fellow,
with no particular brains,
and yet I was convinced
that somehow I was needed
to help this business through
--that without me it
would all go
to blazes.
I told myself it was sheer silly conceit,
that four
or five
of the cleverest people living,
with all the might
of the British Empire
at their back,
had the job
in hand.
Yet I couldn’t be convinced.
It seemed
as
if a voice kept speaking
in my ear,
telling me
to be up
and doing,
or I
would never sleep again.
, , , , ,
The upshot was
that
about half-past nine I made up my mind
to go
to Queen Anne’s Gate.
Very likely I
would not be admitted,
but it
would ease my conscience
to try.
, , , , ,
I walked down Jermyn Street,
and
at the corner
of Duke Street passed a group
of young men.
They were
in evening dress,
had been dining somewhere,
and were going
on
to a music-hall.
One
of them was Mr Marmaduke Jopley.
, , , , ,
He saw me
and stopped short.
, , , , ,
‘By God,
the murderer!’ he cried.
‘Here,
you fellows,
hold him!
That’s Hannay,
the man
who did the Portland Place murder!’ He gripped me
by the arm,
and the others crowded round.
I wasn’t looking
for any trouble,
but my ill-temper made me play the fool.
A policeman came up,
and I
should have told him the truth,
and,
if he didn’t believe it,
demanded
to be taken
to Scotland Yard,
or
for
that matter
to the nearest police station.
But a delay
at
that moment seemed
to me unendurable,
and the sight
of Marmie’s imbecile face was more
than I
could bear.
I let out
with my left,
and had the satisfaction
of seeing him measure his length
in the gutter.
, , , , ,
Then began an unholy row.
They were all
on me
at once,
and the policeman took me
in the rear.
I got
in one
or two good blows,
for I think,
with fair play,
I
could have licked the lot
of them,
but the policeman pinned me behind,
and one
of them got his fingers
on my throat.
, , , , ,
Through a black cloud
of rage I heard the officer
of the law asking
what was the matter,
and Marmie,
between his broken teeth,
declaring
that I was Hannay the murderer.
, , , , ,
‘Oh,
damn it all,’
I cried,
‘make the fellow shut up.
I advise you
to leave me alone,
constable.
Scotland Yard knows all
about me,
and you’ll get a proper wigging
if you interfere
with me.’
, , , , ,
‘You’ve got
to come along
of me,
young man,’
said the policeman.
‘I saw you strike
that gentleman crool ‘ard.
You began it too,
for he wasn’t doing nothing.
I seen you.
Best go quietly
or I’ll have
to fix you up.’
, , , , ,
Exasperation
and an overwhelming sense that
at no cost must I delay gave me the strength
of a bull elephant.
I fairly wrenched the constable off his feet,
floored the man
who was gripping my collar,
and set off
at my best pace down Duke Street.
I heard a whistle being blown,
and the rush
of men
behind me.
, , , , ,
I have a very fair turn
of speed,
and
that night I had wings.
In a jiffy I was
in Pall Mall
and had turned down
towards St James’s Park.
I dodged the policeman
at the Palace gates,
dived
through a press
of carriages
at the entrance
to the Mall,
and was making
for the bridge
before my pursuers had crossed the roadway.
In the open ways
of the Park I put
on a spurt.
Happily
there were few people about
and no one tried
to stop me.
I was staking all
on getting
to Queen Anne’s Gate.
, , , , ,
When I entered
that quiet thoroughfare it seemed deserted.
Sir Walter’s house was
in the narrow part,
and outside it three
or four motor-cars were drawn up.
I slackened speed some yards off
and walked briskly up
to the door.
If the butler refused me admission,
or
if he
even delayed
to open the door,
I was done.
, , , , ,
He didn’t delay.
I had scarcely rung
before the door opened.
, , , , ,
‘I must see Sir Walter,’
I panted.
‘My business is desperately important.’
, , , , ,
That butler was a great man.
Without moving a muscle he held the door open,
and
then shut it
behind me.
‘Sir Walter is engaged,
Sir,
and I have orders
to admit no one.
Perhaps you
will wait.’
, , , , ,
The house was
of the old-fashioned kind,
with a wide hall
and rooms
on both sides
of it.
At the far end was an alcove
with a telephone
and a couple
of chairs,
and
there the butler offered me a seat.
, , , , ,
‘See here,’
I whispered.
‘There’s trouble about
and I’m
in it.
But Sir Walter knows,
and I’m working
for him.
If anyone comes
and asks
if I am here,
tell him a lie.’
, , , , ,
He nodded,
and presently
there was a noise
of voices
in the street,
and a furious ringing
at the bell.
I never admired a man more than
that butler.
He opened the door,
and
with a face
like a graven image waited
to be questioned.
Then he gave them it.
He told them whose house it was,
and
what his orders were,
and simply froze them off the doorstep.
I
could see it all
from my alcove,
and it was better
than any play.
, , , , ,
I hadn’t waited long
till
there came another ring
at the bell.
The butler made no bones
about admitting this new visitor.
, , , , ,
While he was taking off his coat I saw
who it was.
You couldn’t open a newspaper
or a magazine without seeing
that face
--the grey beard cut
like a spade,
the firm fighting mouth,
the blunt square nose,
and the keen blue eyes.
I recognized the First Sea Lord,
the man,
they say,
that made the new British Navy.
, , , , ,
He passed my alcove
and was ushered
into a room
at the back
of the hall.
As the door opened I
could hear the sound
of low voices.
It shut,
and I was left alone again.
, , , , ,
For twenty minutes I sat there,
wondering
what I was
to do next.
I was still perfectly convinced
that I was wanted,
but when
or
how I had no notion.
I kept looking
at my watch,
and
as the time crept
on
to half-past ten I began
to think
that the conference must soon end.
In a quarter
of an hour Royer
should be speeding
along the road
to Portsmouth ...
, , , , ,
Then I heard a bell ring,
and the butler appeared.
The door
of the back room opened,
and the First Sea Lord came out.
He walked past me,
and
in passing he glanced
in my direction,
and
for a second we looked each other
in the face.
, , , , ,
Only
for a second,
but it was enough
to make my heart jump.
I had never seen the great man before,
and he had never seen me.
But
in
that fraction
of time something sprang
into his eyes,
and
that something was recognition.
You can’t mistake it.
It is a flicker,
a spark
of light,
a minute shade
of difference
which means one thing
and one thing only.
It came involuntarily,
for
in a moment it died,
and he passed on.
In a maze
of wild fancies I heard the street door close
behind him.
, , , , ,
I picked up the telephone book
and looked up the number
of his house.
We were connected
at once,
and I heard a servant’s voice.
, , , , ,
‘Is his Lordship
at home?’
I asked.
, , , , ,
‘His Lordship returned half an hour ago,’
said the voice,
‘and has gone
to bed.
He is not very well tonight.
Will you leave a message,
Sir?’
, , , , ,
I rang off
and
almost tumbled
into a chair.
My part
in this business was not yet ended.
It had been a close shave,
but I had been
in time.
, , , , ,
Not a moment
could be lost,
so I marched boldly
to the door
of
that back room
and entered without knocking.
, , , , ,
Five surprised faces looked up
from a round table.
There was Sir Walter,
and Drew the War Minister,
whom I knew
from his photographs.
There was a slim elderly man,
who was probably Whittaker,
the Admiralty official,
and
there was General Winstanley,
conspicuous
from the long scar
on his forehead.
Lastly,
there was a short stout man
with an iron-grey moustache
and bushy eyebrows,
who had been arrested
in the middle
of a sentence.
, , , , ,
Sir Walter’s face showed surprise
and annoyance.
, , , , ,
‘This is Mr Hannay,
of whom I have spoken
to you,’
he said apologetically
to the company.
‘I’m afraid,
Hannay,
this visit is ill-timed.’
, , , , ,
I was getting back my coolness.
‘That remains
to be seen,
Sir,’
I said;
‘but I think it may be
in the nick
of time.
For God’s sake,
gentlemen,
tell me
who went out a minute ago?’
, , , , ,
‘Lord Alloa,’
Sir Walter said,
reddening
with anger.
, , , , ,
‘It was not,’
I cried;
‘it was his living image,
but it was not Lord Alloa.
It was someone
who recognized me,
someone I have seen
in the last month.
He had scarcely left the doorstep
when I rang up Lord Alloa’s house
and was told he had come
in half an hour before
and had gone
to bed.’
, , , , ,
‘Who
--who
--’ someone stammered.
, , , , ,
‘The Black Stone,’
I cried,
and I sat down
in the chair so
recently vacated
and looked round
at five badly scared gentlemen.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER NINE
The Thirty-Nine Steps
‘Nonsense!’ said the official
from the Admiralty.
, , , , ,
Sir Walter got up
and left the room
while we looked blankly
at the table.
He came back
in ten minutes
with a long face.
‘I have spoken
to Alloa,’
he said.
‘Had him out
of bed
--very grumpy.
He went straight home after Mulross’s dinner.’
, , , , ,
‘But it’s madness,’
broke
in General Winstanley.
‘Do you mean
to tell me
that that man came here
and sat beside me
for the best part
of half an hour
and
that I didn’t detect the imposture?
Alloa must be out
of his mind.’
, , , , ,
‘Don’t you see the cleverness
of it?’
I said.
‘You were too interested
in other things
to have any eyes.
You took Lord Alloa
for granted.
If it had been anybody else you might have looked more closely,
but it was natural
for him
to be here,
and
that put you all
to sleep.’
, , , , ,
Then the Frenchman spoke,
very slowly and
in good English.
, , , , ,
‘The young man is right.
His psychology is good.
Our enemies have not been foolish!’
He bent his wise brows
on the assembly.
, , , , ,
‘I
will tell you a tale,’
he said.
‘It happened many years ago
in Senegal.
I was quartered
in a remote station,
and
to pass the time used
to go fishing
for big barbel
in the river.
A little Arab mare used
to carry my luncheon basket
--one
of the salted dun breed you got
at Timbuctoo
in the old days.
Well,
one morning I had good sport,
and the mare was unaccountably restless.
I
could hear her whinnying
and squealing
and stamping her feet,
and I kept soothing her
with my voice
while my mind was intent
on fish.
I
could see her all the time,
as I thought,
out
of a corner
of my eye,
tethered
to a tree twenty yards away.
After a couple
of hours I began
to think
of food.
I collected my fish
in a tarpaulin bag,
and moved down the stream
towards the mare,
trolling my line.
When I got up
to her I flung the tarpaulin
on her back
--’
He paused
and looked round.
, , , , ,
‘It was the smell
that gave me warning.
I turned my head
and found myself looking
at a lion three feet off ...
An old man-eater,
that was the terror
of the village ...
What was left
of the mare,
a mass
of blood
and bones
and hide,
was
behind him.’
, , , , ,
‘What happened?’
I asked.
I was enough
of a hunter
to know a true yarn
when I heard it.
, , , , ,
‘I stuffed my fishing-rod
into his jaws,
and I had a pistol.
Also my servants came presently
with rifles.
But he left his mark
on me.’
He held up a hand
which lacked three fingers.
, , , , ,
‘Consider,’
he said.
‘The mare had been dead more
than an hour,
and the brute had been patiently watching me ever since.
I never saw the kill,
for I was accustomed
to the mare’s fretting,
and I never marked her absence,
for my consciousness
of her was only
of something tawny,
and the lion filled
that part.
If I
could blunder thus,
gentlemen,
in a land
where men’s senses are keen,
why
should we busy preoccupied urban folk not err also?’
, , , , ,
Sir Walter nodded.
No one was ready
to gainsay him.
, , , , ,
‘But I
don’t see,’
went
on Winstanley.
‘Their object was
to get these dispositions without our knowing it.
Now it only required one
of us
to mention
to Alloa our meeting tonight
for the whole fraud
to be exposed.’
, , , , ,
Sir Walter laughed dryly.
‘The selection
of Alloa shows their acumen.
Which
of us was likely
to speak
to him
about tonight?
Or was he likely
to open the subject?’
, , , , ,
I remembered the First Sea Lord’s reputation
for taciturnity
and shortness
of temper.
, , , , ,
‘The one thing
that puzzles me,’
said the General,
‘is
what good his visit here
would do
that spy fellow?
He
could not carry away several pages
of figures
and strange names
in his head.’
, , , , ,
‘That is not difficult,’
the Frenchman replied.
‘A good spy is trained
to have a photographic memory.
Like your own Macaulay.
You noticed he said nothing,
but went
through these papers again
and again.
I think we may assume
that he has every detail stamped
on his mind.
When I was younger I
could do the same trick.’
, , , , ,
‘Well,
I suppose
there is nothing
for it but
to change the plans,’
said Sir Walter ruefully.
, , , , ,
Whittaker was looking very glum.
‘Did you tell Lord Alloa
what has happened?’
he asked.
‘No?
Well,
I can’t speak
with absolute assurance,
but I’m nearly certain we can’t make any serious change
unless we alter the geography
of England.’
, , , , ,
‘Another thing must be said,’
it was Royer
who spoke.
‘I talked freely
when
that man was here.
I told something
of the military plans
of my Government.
I was permitted
to say so much.
But
that information
would be worth many millions
to our enemies.
No,
my friends,
I see no other way.
The man
who came here
and his confederates must be taken,
and taken
at once.’
, , , , ,
‘Good God,’
I cried,
‘and we have not a rag
of a clue.’
, , , , ,
‘Besides,’
said Whittaker,
‘there is the post.
By this time the news
will be
on its way.’
, , , , ,
‘No,’
said the Frenchman.
‘You do not understand the habits
of the spy.
He receives personally his reward,
and he delivers personally his intelligence.
We
in France know something
of the breed.
There is still a chance,
MES AMIS.
These men must cross the sea,
and
there are ships
to be searched
and ports
to be watched.
Believe me,
the need is desperate
for both France
and Britain.’
, , , , ,
Royer’s grave good sense seemed
to pull us together.
He was the man
of action
among fumblers.
But I saw no hope
in any face,
and I felt none.
Where
among the fifty millions
of these islands
and within a dozen hours were we
to lay hands
on the three cleverest rogues
in Europe?
, , , , ,
Then suddenly I had an inspiration.
, , , , ,
‘Where is Scudder’s book?’
I cried
to Sir Walter.
‘Quick,
man,
I remember something
in it.’
, , , , ,
He unlocked the door
of a bureau
and gave it
to me.
, , , , ,
I found the place.
THIRTY-NINE STEPS,
I read,
and again,
THIRTY-NINE STEPS
--I COUNTED THEM
--HIGH TIDE 10.17 p.m.
The Admiralty man was looking
at me
as
if he thought I had gone mad.
, , , , ,
‘Don’t you see it’s a clue,’
I shouted.
‘Scudder knew
where these fellows laired
--he knew
where they were going
to leave the country,
though he kept the name
to himself.
Tomorrow was the day,
and it was some place
where high tide was
at 10.17.’
, , , , ,
‘They may have gone tonight,’
someone said.
, , , , ,
‘Not they.
They have their own snug secret way,
and they
won’t be hurried.
I know Germans,
and they are mad
about working
to a plan.
Where the devil
can I get a book
of Tide Tables?’
, , , , ,
Whittaker brightened up.
‘It’s a chance,’
he said.
‘Let’s go over
to the Admiralty.’
, , , , ,
We got
into two
of the waiting motor-cars
--all
but Sir Walter,
who went off
to Scotland Yard
--to ‘mobilize MacGillivray’,
so he said.
We marched
through empty corridors
and big bare chambers
where the charwomen were busy,
till we reached a little room lined
with books
and maps.
A resident clerk was unearthed,
who presently fetched
from the library the Admiralty Tide Tables.
I sat
at the desk
and the others stood round,
for somehow
or other I had got charge
of this expedition.
, , , , ,
It was no good.
There were hundreds
of entries,
and so far
as I
could see 10.17 might cover fifty places.
We had
to find some way
of narrowing the possibilities.
, , , , ,
I took my head
in my hands
and thought.
There must be some way
of reading this riddle.
What did Scudder mean
by steps?
I thought
of dock steps,
but
if he had meant
that I didn’t think he
would have mentioned the number.
It must be some place
where
there were several staircases,
and one marked out
from the others
by having thirty-nine steps.
, , , , ,
Then I had a sudden thought,
and hunted up all the steamer sailings.
There was no boat
which left
for the Continent
at 10.17 p.m.
Why was high tide so important?
If it was a harbour it must be some little place
where the tide mattered,
or else it was a heavy-draught boat.
But
there was no regular steamer sailing
at
that hour,
and somehow I didn’t think they
would travel
by a big boat
from a regular harbour.
So it must be some little harbour
where the tide was important,
or perhaps no harbour
at all.
, , , , ,
But
if it was a little port I couldn’t see
what the steps signified.
There were no sets
of staircases
on any harbour
that I had ever seen.
It must be some place
which a particular staircase identified,
and
where the tide was full
at 10.17.
On the whole it seemed
to me
that the place must be a bit
of open coast.
But the staircases kept puzzling me.
, , , , ,
Then I went back
to wider considerations.
Whereabouts
would a man be likely
to leave
for Germany,
a man
in a hurry,
who wanted a speedy
and a secret passage?
Not
from any
of the big harbours.
And not
from the Channel
or the West Coast
or Scotland,
for,
remember,
he was starting
from London.
I measured the distance
on the map,
and tried
to put myself
in the enemy’s shoes.
I
should try
for Ostend
or Antwerp
or Rotterdam,
and I
should sail
from somewhere
on the East Coast
between Cromer
and Dover.
, , , , ,
All this was very loose guessing,
and I
don’t pretend it was ingenious
or scientific.
I wasn’t any kind
of Sherlock Holmes.
But I have always fancied I had a kind
of instinct
about questions
like this.
I
don’t know
if I
can explain myself,
but I used
to use my brains
as far
as they went,
and after they came
to a blank wall I guessed,
and I usually found my guesses pretty right.
, , , , ,
So I set out all my conclusions
on a bit
of Admiralty paper.
They ran
like this:
FAIRLY CERTAIN
(1)
Place
where
there are several sets
of stairs;
one
that matters distinguished
by having thirty-nine steps.
, , , , ,
(2)
Full tide
at 10.17 p.m. Leaving shore only possible
at full tide.
, , , , ,
(3)
Steps not dock steps,
and so place probably not harbour.
, , , , ,
(4)
No regular night steamer
at 10.17.
Means
of transport must be tramp
(unlikely),
yacht,
or fishing-boat.
, , , , ,
There my reasoning stopped.
I made another list,
which I headed ‘Guessed’,
but I was just
as sure
of the one
as the other.
, , , , ,
GUESSED
(1)
Place not harbour
but open coast.
, , , , ,
(2)
Boat small
--trawler,
yacht,
or launch.
, , , , ,
(3)
Place somewhere
on East Coast
between Cromer
and Dover.
, , , , ,
It struck me
as odd
that I
should be sitting
at
that desk
with a Cabinet Minister,
a Field-Marshal,
two high Government officials,
and a French General watching me,
while
from the scribble
of a dead man I was trying
to drag a secret
which meant life
or death
for us.
, , , , ,
Sir Walter had joined us,
and presently MacGillivray arrived.
He had sent out instructions
to watch the ports
and railway stations
for the three men whom I had described
to Sir Walter.
Not
that he
or anybody else thought
that that
would do much good.
, , , , ,
‘Here’s the most I
can make
of it,’
I said.
‘We have got
to find a place
where
there are several staircases down
to the beach,
one
of
which has thirty-nine steps.
I think it’s a piece
of open coast
with biggish cliffs,
somewhere
between the Wash
and the Channel.
Also it’s a place
where full tide is
at 10.17 tomorrow night.’
, , , , ,
Then an idea struck me.
‘Is
there no Inspector
of Coastguards
or some fellow
like that
who knows the East Coast?’
, , , , ,
Whittaker said
there was,
and
that he lived
in Clapham.
He went off
in a car
to fetch him,
and the rest
of us sat
about the little room
and talked
of anything
that came
into our heads.
I lit a pipe
and went
over the whole thing again
till my brain grew weary.
, , , , ,
About one
in the morning the coastguard man arrived.
He was a fine old fellow,
with the look
of a naval officer,
and was desperately respectful
to the company.
I left the War Minister
to cross-examine him,
for I felt he
would think it cheek
in me
to talk.
, , , , ,
‘We want you
to tell us the places you know
on the East Coast
where
there are cliffs,
and
where several sets
of steps run down
to the beach.’
, , , , ,
He thought
for a bit.
‘What kind
of steps do you mean,
Sir?
There are plenty
of places
with roads cut down
through the cliffs,
and most roads have a step
or two
in them.
Or do you mean regular staircases
--all steps,
so
to speak?’
, , , , ,
Sir Arthur looked
towards me.
‘We mean regular staircases,’
I said.
, , , , ,
He reflected a minute
or two.
‘I
don’t know
that I
can think
of any.
Wait a second.
There’s a place
in Norfolk
--Brattlesham
--beside a golf-course,
where
there are a couple
of staircases,
to let the gentlemen get a lost ball.’
, , , , ,
‘That’s not it,’
I said.
, , , , ,
‘Then
there are plenty
of Marine Parades,
if that’s
what you mean.
Every seaside resort has them.’
, , , , ,
I shook my head.
‘It’s got
to be more retired
than that,’
I said.
, , , , ,
‘Well,
gentlemen,
I can’t think
of
anywhere else.
Of course,
there’s the Ruff
--’
‘What’s that?’
I asked.
, , , , ,
‘The big chalk headland
in Kent,
close
to Bradgate.
It’s got a lot
of villas
on the top,
and some
of the houses have staircases down
to a private beach.
It’s a very high-toned sort
of place,
and the residents
there like
to keep
by themselves.’
, , , , ,
I tore open the Tide Tables
and found Bradgate.
High tide
there was
at 10.27 p.m.
on the 15th
of June.
, , , , ,
‘We’re
on the scent
at last,’
I cried excitedly.
‘How
can I find out
what is the tide
at the Ruff?’
, , , , ,
‘I
can tell you that,
Sir,’
said the coastguard man.
‘I once was lent a house there
in this very month,
and I used
to go out
at night
to the deep-sea fishing.
The tide’s ten minutes
before Bradgate.’
, , , , ,
I closed the book
and looked round
at the company.
, , , , ,
‘If one
of those staircases has thirty-nine steps we have solved the mystery,
gentlemen,’
I said.
‘I want the loan
of your car,
Sir Walter,
and a map
of the roads.
If Mr MacGillivray
will spare me ten minutes,
I think we
can prepare something
for tomorrow.’
, , , , ,
It was ridiculous
in me
to take charge
of the business
like this,
but they didn’t seem
to mind,
and after all I had been
in the show
from the start.
Besides,
I was used
to rough jobs,
and these eminent gentlemen were too clever not
to see it.
It was General Royer
who gave me my commission.
‘I
for one,’
he said,
‘am content
to leave the matter
in Mr Hannay’s hands.’
, , , , ,
By half-past three I was tearing past the moonlit hedgerows
of Kent,
with MacGillivray’s best man
on the seat beside me.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER TEN
Various Parties Converging
on the Sea
A pink
and blue June morning found me
at Bradgate looking
from the Griffin Hotel
over a smooth sea
to the lightship
on the Cock sands
which seemed the size
of a bell-buoy.
A couple
of miles farther south
and much nearer the shore a small destroyer was anchored.
Scaife,
MacGillivray’s man,
who had been
in the Navy,
knew the boat,
and told me her name
and her commander’s,
so I sent off a wire
to Sir Walter.
, , , , ,
After breakfast Scaife got
from a house-agent a key
for the gates
of the staircases
on the Ruff.
I walked
with him
along the sands,
and sat down
in a nook
of the cliffs
while he investigated the half-dozen
of them.
I didn’t want
to be seen,
but the place
at this hour was quite deserted,
and all the time I was
on
that beach I saw nothing
but the sea-gulls.
, , , , ,
It took him more
than an hour
to do the job,
and
when I saw him coming
towards me,
conning a bit
of paper,
I
can tell you my heart was
in my mouth.
Everything depended,
you see,
on my guess proving right.
, , , , ,
He read aloud the number
of steps
in the different stairs.
‘Thirty-four,
thirty-five,
thirty-nine,
forty-two,
forty-seven,’
and ‘twenty-one’
where the cliffs grew lower.
I
almost got up
and shouted.
, , , , ,
We hurried back
to the town
and sent a wire
to MacGillivray.
I wanted half a dozen men,
and I directed them
to divide themselves
among different specified hotels.
Then Scaife set out
to prospect the house
at the head
of the thirty-nine steps.
, , , , ,
He came back
with news
that both puzzled
and reassured me.
The house was called Trafalgar Lodge,
and belonged
to an old gentleman called Appleton
--a retired stockbroker,
the house-agent said.
Mr Appleton was
there a good deal
in the summer time,
and was
in residence now
--had been
for the better part
of a week.
Scaife
could pick up very little information
about him,
except
that he was a decent old fellow,
who paid his bills regularly,
and was always good
for a fiver
for a local charity.
Then Scaife seemed
to have penetrated
to the back door
of the house,
pretending he was an agent
for sewing-machines.
Only three servants were kept,
a cook,
a parlour-maid,
and a housemaid,
and they were just the sort
that you
would find
in a respectable middle-class household.
The cook was not the gossiping kind,
and had pretty soon shut the door
in his face,
but Scaife said he was positive she knew nothing.
Next door
there was a new house building
which
would give good cover
for observation,
and the villa
on the other side was
to let,
and its garden was rough
and shrubby.
, , , , ,
I borrowed Scaife’s telescope,
and
before lunch went
for a walk
along the Ruff.
I kept well
behind the rows
of villas,
and found a good observation point
on the edge
of the golf-course.
There I had a view
of the line
of turf
along the cliff top,
with seats placed
at intervals,
and the little square plots,
railed
in
and planted
with bushes,
whence the staircases descended
to the beach.
I saw Trafalgar Lodge very plainly,
a red-brick villa
with a veranda,
a tennis lawn behind,
and
in front the ordinary seaside flower-garden full
of marguerites
and scraggy geraniums.
There was a flagstaff
from
which an enormous Union Jack hung limply
in the still air.
, , , , ,
Presently I observed someone leave the house
and saunter
along the cliff.
When I got my glasses
on him I saw it was an old man,
wearing white flannel trousers,
a blue serge jacket,
and a straw hat.
He carried field-glasses
and a newspaper,
and sat down
on one
of the iron seats
and began
to read.
Sometimes he
would lay down the paper
and turn his glasses
on the sea.
He looked
for a long time
at the destroyer.
I watched him
for half an hour,
till he got up
and went back
to the house
for his luncheon,
when I returned
to the hotel
for mine.
, , , , ,
I wasn’t feeling very confident.
This decent common-place dwelling was not
what I had expected.
The man might be the bald archaeologist
of
that horrible moorland farm,
or he might not.
He was exactly the kind
of satisfied old bird you
will find
in every suburb
and every holiday place.
If you wanted a type
of the perfectly harmless person you
would probably pitch
on that.
, , , , ,
But after lunch,
as I sat
in the hotel porch,
I perked up,
for I saw the thing I had hoped for
and had dreaded
to miss.
A yacht came up
from the south
and dropped anchor pretty well opposite the Ruff.
She seemed
about a hundred
and fifty tons,
and I saw she belonged
to the Squadron
from the white ensign.
So Scaife
and I went down
to the harbour
and hired a boatman
for an afternoon’s fishing.
, , , , ,
I spent a warm
and peaceful afternoon.
We caught
between us
about twenty pounds
of cod
and lythe,
and out
in
that dancing blue sea I took a cheerier view
of things.
Above the white cliffs
of the Ruff I saw the green
and red
of the villas,
and especially the great flagstaff
of Trafalgar Lodge.
About four o’clock,
when we had fished enough,
I made the boatman row us round the yacht,
which lay
like a delicate white bird,
ready
at a moment
to flee.
Scaife said she must be a fast boat
for her build,
and
that she was pretty heavily engined.
, , , , ,
Her name was the ARIADNE,
as I discovered
from the cap
of one
of the men
who was polishing brasswork.
I spoke
to him,
and got an answer
in the soft dialect
of Essex.
Another hand
that came
along passed me the time
of day
in an unmistakable English tongue.
Our boatman had an argument
with one
of them
about the weather,
and
for a few minutes we lay
on our oars close
to the starboard bow.
, , , , ,
Then the men suddenly disregarded us
and bent their heads
to their work
as an officer came
along the deck.
He was a pleasant,
clean-looking young fellow,
and he put a question
to us
about our fishing
in very good English.
But
there
could be no doubt
about him.
His close-cropped head
and the cut
of his collar
and tie never came out
of England.
, , , , ,
That did something
to reassure me,
but
as we rowed back
to Bradgate my obstinate doubts
would not be dismissed.
The thing
that worried me was the reflection
that my enemies knew
that I had got my knowledge
from Scudder,
and it was Scudder
who had given me the clue
to this place.
If they knew
that Scudder had this clue,
would they not be certain
to change their plans?
Too much depended
on their success
for them
to take any risks.
The whole question was
how much they understood
about Scudder’s knowledge.
I had talked confidently last night
about Germans always sticking
to a scheme,
but
if they had any suspicions
that I was
on their track they
would be fools not
to cover it.
I wondered
if the man last night had seen
that I recognized him.
Somehow I did not think he had,
and
to
that I had clung.
But the whole business had never seemed so difficult
as
that afternoon when
by all calculations I
should have been rejoicing
in assured success.
, , , , ,
In the hotel I met the commander
of the destroyer,
to whom Scaife introduced me,
and
with whom I had a few words.
Then I thought I
would put
in an hour
or two watching Trafalgar Lodge.
, , , , ,
I found a place farther up the hill,
in the garden
of an empty house.
From
there I had a full view
of the court,
on
which two figures were having a game
of tennis.
One was the old man,
whom I had already seen;
the other was a younger fellow,
wearing some club colours
in the scarf round his middle.
They played
with tremendous zest,
like two city gents
who wanted hard exercise
to open their pores.
You couldn’t conceive a more innocent spectacle.
They shouted
and laughed
and stopped
for drinks,
when a maid brought out two tankards
on a salver.
I rubbed my eyes
and asked myself
if I was not the most immortal fool
on earth.
Mystery
and darkness had hung
about the men
who hunted me
over the Scotch moor
in aeroplane
and motor-car,
and notably about
that infernal antiquarian.
It was easy enough
to connect those folk
with the knife
that pinned Scudder
to the floor,
and
with fell designs
on the world’s peace.
But here were two guileless citizens taking their innocuous exercise,
and soon about
to go indoors
to a humdrum dinner,
where they
would talk
of market prices
and the last cricket scores
and the gossip
of their native Surbiton.
I had been making a net
to catch vultures
and falcons,
and lo
and behold!
two plump thrushes had blundered
into it.
, , , , ,
Presently a third figure arrived,
a young man
on a bicycle,
with a bag
of golf-clubs slung
on his back.
He strolled round
to the tennis lawn
and was welcomed riotously
by the players.
Evidently they were chaffing him,
and their chaff sounded horribly English.
Then the plump man,
mopping his brow
with a silk handkerchief,
announced
that he must have a tub.
I heard his very words
--’I’ve got
into a proper lather,’
he said.
‘This
will bring down my weight
and my handicap,
Bob.
I’ll take you
on tomorrow
and give you a stroke a hole.’
You couldn’t find anything much more English
than that.
, , , , ,
They all went
into the house,
and left me feeling a precious idiot.
I had been barking up the wrong tree this time.
These men might be acting;
but
if they were,
where was their audience?
They didn’t know I was sitting thirty yards off
in a rhododendron.
It was simply impossible
to believe
that these three hearty fellows were anything
but
what they seemed
--three ordinary,
game-playing,
suburban Englishmen,
wearisome,
if you like,
but sordidly innocent.
, , , , ,
And yet
there were three
of them;
and one was old,
and one was plump,
and one was lean
and dark;
and their house chimed
in
with Scudder’s notes;
and half a mile off was lying a steam yacht with
at least one German officer.
I thought
of Karolides lying dead
and all Europe trembling
on the edge
of earthquake,
and the men I had left
behind me
in London
who were waiting anxiously
for the events
of the next hours.
There was no doubt
that hell was afoot somewhere.
The Black Stone had won,
and
if it survived this June night
would bank its winnings.
, , , , ,
There seemed only one thing
to do
--go forward
as
if I had no doubts,
and
if I was going
to make a fool
of myself
to do it handsomely.
Never
in my life have I faced a job
with greater disinclination.
I
would rather
in my
then mind have walked
into a den
of anarchists,
each
with his Browning handy,
or faced a charging lion
with a popgun,
than enter
that happy home
of three cheerful Englishmen
and tell them
that their game was up.
How they
would laugh
at me!
But suddenly I remembered a thing I once heard
in Rhodesia
from old Peter Pienaar.
I have quoted Peter already
in this narrative.
He was the best scout I ever knew,
and
before he had turned respectable he had been pretty often
on the windy side
of the law,
when he had been wanted badly
by the authorities.
Peter once discussed
with me the question
of disguises,
and he had a theory
which struck me
at the time.
He said,
barring absolute certainties
like fingerprints,
mere physical traits were very little use
for identification
if the fugitive really knew his business.
He laughed
at things
like dyed hair
and false beards
and such childish follies.
The only thing
that mattered was
what Peter called ‘atmosphere’.
, , , , ,
If a man
could get
into perfectly different surroundings
from those
in
which he had been first observed,
and
--this is the important part
--really play up
to these surroundings
and behave
as
if he had never been out
of them,
he
would puzzle the cleverest detectives
on earth.
And he used
to tell a story
of
how he once borrowed a black coat
and went
to church
and shared the same hymn-book
with the man
that was looking
for him.
If
that man had seen him
in decent company
before he
would have recognized him;
but he had only seen him snuffing the lights
in a public-house
with a revolver.
, , , , ,
The recollection
of Peter’s talk gave me the first real comfort
that I had had
that day.
Peter had been a wise old bird,
and these fellows I was after were
about the pick
of the aviary.
What
if they were playing Peter’s game?
A fool tries
to look different:
a clever man looks the same
and is different.
, , , , ,
Again,
there was
that other maxim
of Peter’s
which had helped me
when I had been a roadman.
‘If you are playing a part,
you
will never keep it up
unless you convince yourself
that you are it.’
That
would explain the game
of tennis.
Those chaps didn’t need
to act,
they just turned a handle
and passed
into another life,
which came
as naturally
to them
as the first.
It sounds a platitude,
but Peter used
to say
that it was the big secret
of all the famous criminals.
, , , , ,
It was now getting
on
for eight o’clock,
and I went back
and saw Scaife
to give him his instructions.
I arranged
with him how
to place his men,
and
then I went
for a walk,
for I didn’t feel up
to any dinner.
I went round the deserted golf-course,
and then
to a point
on the cliffs farther north beyond the line
of the villas.
, , , , ,
On the little trim newly-made roads I met people
in flannels coming back
from tennis
and the beach,
and a coastguard
from the wireless station,
and donkeys
and pierrots padding homewards.
Out
at sea
in the blue dusk I saw lights appear
on the ARIADNE and
on the destroyer away
to the south,
and beyond the Cock sands the bigger lights
of steamers making
for the Thames.
The whole scene was so peaceful
and ordinary
that I got more dashed
in spirits every second.
It took all my resolution
to stroll
towards Trafalgar Lodge
about half-past nine.
, , , , ,
On the way I got a piece
of solid comfort
from the sight
of a greyhound
that was swinging along
at a nursemaid’s heels.
He reminded me
of a dog I used
to have
in Rhodesia,
and
of the time
when I took him hunting
with me
in the Pali hills.
We were after rhebok,
the dun kind,
and I recollected
how we had followed one beast,
and both he
and I had clean lost it.
A greyhound works
by sight,
and my eyes are good enough,
but
that buck simply leaked out
of the landscape.
Afterwards I found out
how it managed it.
Against the grey rock
of the kopjes it showed no more
than a crow
against a thundercloud.
It didn’t need
to run away;
all it had
to do was
to stand still
and melt
into the background.
, , , , ,
Suddenly
as these memories chased
across my brain I thought
of my present case
and applied the moral.
The Black Stone didn’t need
to bolt.
They were quietly absorbed
into the landscape.
I was
on the right track,
and I jammed
that down
in my mind
and vowed never
to forget it.
The last word was
with Peter Pienaar.
, , , , ,
Scaife’s men
would be posted now,
but
there was no sign
of a soul.
The house stood
as open
as a market-place
for anybody
to observe.
A three-foot railing separated it
from the cliff road;
the windows
on the ground-floor were all open,
and shaded lights
and the low sound
of voices revealed
where the occupants were finishing dinner.
Everything was
as public
and above-board
as a charity bazaar.
Feeling the greatest fool
on earth,
I opened the gate
and rang the bell.
, , , , ,
A man
of my sort,
who has travelled
about the world
in rough places,
gets
on perfectly well
with two classes,
what you may call the upper
and the lower.
He understands them
and they understand him.
I was
at home
with herds
and tramps
and roadmen,
and I was sufficiently
at my ease
with people
like Sir Walter
and the men I had met the night before.
I can’t explain why,
but it is a fact.
But
what fellows
like me
don’t understand is the great comfortable,
satisfied middle-class world,
the folk
that live
in villas
and suburbs.
He doesn’t know
how they look
at things,
he doesn’t understand their conventions,
and he is
as shy
of them as
of a black mamba.
When a trim parlour-maid opened the door,
I
could
hardly find my voice.
, , , , ,
I asked
for Mr Appleton,
and was ushered in.
My plan had been
to walk straight
into the dining-room,
and
by a sudden appearance wake
in the men
that start
of recognition
which
would confirm my theory.
But
when I found myself
in
that neat hall the place mastered me.
There were the golf-clubs
and tennis-rackets,
the straw hats
and caps,
the rows
of gloves,
the sheaf
of walking-sticks,
which you
will find
in ten thousand British homes.
A stack
of neatly folded coats
and waterproofs covered the top
of an old oak chest;
there was a grandfather clock ticking;
and some polished brass warming-pans
on the walls,
and a barometer,
and a print
of Chiltern winning the St Leger.
The place was
as orthodox
as an Anglican church.
When the maid asked me
for my name I gave it automatically,
and was shown
into the smoking-room,
on the right side
of the hall.
, , , , ,
That room was
even worse.
I hadn’t time
to examine it,
but I
could see some framed group photographs
above the mantelpiece,
and I
could have sworn they were English public school
or college.
I had only one glance,
for I managed
to pull myself together
and go after the maid.
But I was too late.
She had already entered the dining-room
and given my name
to her master,
and I had missed the chance
of seeing
how the three took it.
, , , , ,
When I walked
into the room the old man
at the head
of the table had risen
and turned round
to meet me.
He was
in evening dress
--a short coat
and black tie,
as was the other,
whom I called
in my own mind the plump one.
The third,
the dark fellow,
wore a blue serge suit
and a soft white collar,
and the colours
of some club
or school.
, , , , ,
The old man’s manner was perfect.
‘Mr Hannay?’
he said hesitatingly.
‘Did you wish
to see me?
One moment,
you fellows,
and I’ll rejoin you.
We had better go
to the smoking-room.’
, , , , ,
Though I hadn’t an ounce
of confidence
in me,
I forced myself
to play the game.
I pulled up a chair
and sat down
on it.
, , , , ,
‘I think we have met before,’
I said,
‘and I guess you know my business.’
, , , , ,
The light
in the room was dim,
but so far
as I
could see their faces,
they played the part
of mystification very well.
, , , , ,
‘Maybe,
maybe,’
said the old man.
‘I haven’t a very good memory,
but I’m afraid you must tell me your errand,
Sir,
for I really
don’t know it.’
, , , , ,
‘Well,
then,’
I said,
and all the time I seemed
to myself
to be talking pure foolishness
--’I have come
to tell you
that the game’s up.
I have a warrant
for the arrest
of you three gentlemen.’
, , , , ,
‘Arrest,’
said the old man,
and he looked really shocked.
‘Arrest!
Good God,
what for?’
, , , , ,
‘For the murder
of Franklin Scudder
in London
on the 23rd day
of last month.’
, , , , ,
‘I never heard the name before,’
said the old man
in a dazed voice.
, , , , ,
One
of the others spoke up.
‘That was the Portland Place murder.
I read
about it.
Good heavens,
you must be mad,
Sir!
Where do you come from?’
, , , , ,
‘Scotland Yard,’
I said.
, , , , ,
After that
for a minute
there was utter silence.
The old man was staring
at his plate
and fumbling
with a nut,
the very model
of innocent bewilderment.
, , , , ,
Then the plump one spoke up.
He stammered a little,
like a man picking his words.
, , , , ,
‘Don’t get flustered,
uncle,’
he said.
‘It is all a ridiculous mistake;
but these things happen sometimes,
and we
can easily set it right.
It
won’t be hard
to prove our innocence.
I
can show
that I was out
of the country
on the 23rd
of May,
and Bob was
in a nursing home.
You were
in London,
but you
can explain
what you were doing.’
, , , , ,
‘Right,
Percy!
Of course that’s easy enough.
The 23rd!
That was the day after Agatha’s wedding.
Let me see.
What was I doing?
I came up
in the morning
from Woking,
and lunched
at the club
with Charlie Symons.
Then
--oh yes,
I dined
with the Fishmongers.
I remember,
for the punch didn’t agree
with me,
and I was seedy next morning.
Hang it all,
there’s the cigar-box I brought back
from the dinner.’
He pointed
to an object
on the table,
and laughed nervously.
, , , , ,
‘I think,
Sir,’
said the young man,
addressing me respectfully,
‘you
will see you are mistaken.
We want
to assist the law
like all Englishmen,
and we
don’t want Scotland Yard
to be making fools
of themselves.
That’s so,
uncle?’
, , , , ,
‘Certainly,
Bob.’
The old fellow seemed
to be recovering his voice.
‘Certainly,
we’ll do anything
in our power
to assist the authorities.
But
--but this is a bit too much.
I can’t get
over it.’
, , , , ,
‘How Nellie
will chuckle,’
said the plump man.
‘She always said
that you
would die
of boredom
because nothing ever happened
to you.
And now you’ve got it thick
and strong,’
and he began
to laugh very pleasantly.
, , , , ,
‘By Jove,
yes.
Just think
of it!
What a story
to tell
at the club.
Really,
Mr Hannay,
I suppose I
should be angry,
to show my innocence,
but it’s too funny!
I
almost forgive you the fright you gave me!
You looked so glum,
I thought I might have been walking
in my sleep
and killing people.’
, , , , ,
It couldn’t be acting,
it was too confoundedly genuine.
My heart went
into my boots,
and my first impulse was
to apologize
and clear out.
But I told myself I must see it through,
even though I was
to be the laughing-stock
of Britain.
The light
from the dinner-table candlesticks was not very good,
and
to cover my confusion I got up,
walked
to the door
and switched
on the electric light.
The sudden glare made them blink,
and I stood scanning the three faces.
, , , , ,
Well,
I made nothing
of it.
One was old
and bald,
one was stout,
one was dark
and thin.
There was nothing
in their appearance
to prevent them being the three
who had hunted me
in Scotland,
but
there was nothing
to identify them.
I simply can’t explain
why I who,
as a roadman,
had looked
into two pairs
of eyes,
and
as Ned Ainslie
into another pair,
why I,
who have a good memory
and reasonable powers
of observation,
could find no satisfaction.
They seemed exactly
what they professed
to be,
and I
could not have sworn
to one
of them.
, , , , ,
There
in
that pleasant dining-room,
with etchings
on the walls,
and a picture
of an old lady
in a bib
above the mantelpiece,
I
could see nothing
to connect them
with the moorland desperadoes.
There was a silver cigarette-box beside me,
and I saw
that it had been won
by Percival Appleton,
Esq.,
of the St Bede’s Club,
in a golf tournament.
I had
to keep a firm hold
of Peter Pienaar
to prevent myself bolting out
of
that house.
, , , , ,
‘Well,’
said the old man politely,
‘are you reassured
by your scrutiny,
Sir?’
, , , , ,
I couldn’t find a word.
, , , , ,
‘I hope you’ll find it consistent
with your duty
to drop this ridiculous business.
I make no complaint,
but you’ll see
how annoying it must be
to respectable people.’
, , , , ,
I shook my head.
, , , , ,
‘O Lord,’
said the young man.
‘This is a bit too thick!’
‘Do you propose
to march us off
to the police station?’
asked the plump one.
‘That might be the best way out
of it,
but I suppose you
won’t be content
with the local branch.
I have the right
to ask
to see your warrant,
but I
don’t wish
to cast any aspersions upon you.
You are only doing your duty.
But you’ll admit it’s horribly awkward.
What do you propose
to do?’
, , , , ,
There was nothing
to do except
to call
in my men
and have them arrested,
or
to confess my blunder
and clear out.
I felt mesmerized
by the whole place,
by the air
of obvious innocence
--not innocence merely,
but frank honest bewilderment
and concern
in the three faces.
, , , , ,
‘Oh,
Peter Pienaar,’
I groaned inwardly,
and
for a moment I was very near damning myself
for a fool
and asking their pardon.
, , , , ,
‘Meantime I vote we have a game
of bridge,’
said the plump one.
‘It
will give Mr Hannay time
to think
over things,
and you know we have been wanting a fourth player.
Do you play,
Sir?’
, , , , ,
I accepted
as
if it had been an ordinary invitation
at the club.
The whole business had mesmerized me.
We went
into the smoking-room
where a card-table was set out,
and I was offered things
to smoke
and drink.
I took my place
at the table
in a kind
of dream.
The window was open
and the moon was flooding the cliffs
and sea
with a great tide
of yellow light.
There was moonshine,
too,
in my head.
The three had recovered their composure,
and were talking easily
--just the kind
of slangy talk you
will hear
in any golf club-house.
I must have cut a rum figure,
sitting
there knitting my brows
with my eyes wandering.
, , , , ,
My partner was the young dark one.
I play a fair hand
at bridge,
but I must have been rank bad
that night.
They saw
that they had got me puzzled,
and
that put them more
than ever
at their ease.
I kept looking
at their faces,
but they conveyed nothing
to me.
It was not
that they looked different;
they were different.
I clung desperately
to the words
of Peter Pienaar.
, , , , ,
Then something awoke me.
, , , , ,
The old man laid down his hand
to light a cigar.
He didn’t pick it up
at once,
but sat back
for a moment
in his chair,
with his fingers tapping
on his knees.
, , , , ,
It was the movement I remembered
when I had stood
before him
in the moorland farm,
with the pistols
of his servants
behind me.
, , , , ,
A little thing,
lasting only a second,
and the odds were a thousand
to one
that I might have had my eyes
on my cards
at the time
and missed it.
But I didn’t,
and,
in a flash,
the air seemed
to clear.
Some shadow lifted
from my brain,
and I was looking
at the three men
with full
and absolute recognition.
, , , , ,
The clock
on the mantelpiece struck ten o’clock.
, , , , ,
The three faces seemed
to change
before my eyes
and reveal their secrets.
The young one was the murderer.
Now I saw cruelty
and ruthlessness,
where
before I had only seen good-humour.
His knife,
I made certain,
had skewered Scudder
to the floor.
His kind had put the bullet
in Karolides.
, , , , ,
The plump man’s features seemed
to dislimn,
and form again,
as I looked
at them.
He hadn’t a face,
only a hundred masks
that he
could assume
when he pleased.
That chap must have been a superb actor.
Perhaps he had been Lord Alloa
of the night before;
perhaps not;
it didn’t matter.
I wondered
if he was the fellow
who had first tracked Scudder,
and left his card
on him.
Scudder had said he lisped,
and I
could imagine
how the adoption
of a lisp might add terror.
, , , , ,
But the old man was the pick
of the lot.
He was sheer brain,
icy,
cool,
calculating,
as ruthless
as a steam hammer.
Now
that my eyes were opened I wondered
where I had seen the benevolence.
His jaw was
like chilled steel,
and his eyes had the inhuman luminosity
of a bird’s.
I went
on playing,
and every second a greater hate welled up
in my heart.
It
almost choked me,
and I couldn’t answer
when my partner spoke.
Only a little longer
could I endure their company.
, , , , ,
‘Whew!
Bob!
Look
at the time,’
said the old man.
‘You’d better think
about catching your train.
Bob’s got
to go
to town tonight,’
he added,
turning
to me.
The voice rang now
as false
as hell.
I looked
at the clock,
and it was nearly half-past ten.
, , , , ,
‘I am afraid he must put off his journey,’
I said.
, , , , ,
‘Oh,
damn,’
said the young man.
‘I thought you had dropped
that rot.
I’ve simply got
to go.
You
can have my address,
and I’ll give any security you like.’
, , , , ,
‘No,’
I said,
‘you must stay.’
, , , , ,
At
that I think they must have realized
that the game was desperate.
Their only chance had been
to convince me
that I was playing the fool,
and
that had failed.
But the old man spoke again.
, , , , ,
‘I’ll go bail
for my nephew.
That ought
to content you,
Mr Hannay.’
Was it fancy,
or did I detect some halt
in the smoothness
of
that voice?
, , , , ,
There must have been,
for
as I glanced
at him,
his eyelids fell
in
that hawk-like hood
which fear had stamped
on my memory.
, , , , ,
I blew my whistle.
, , , , ,
In an instant the lights were out.
A pair
of strong arms gripped me round the waist,
covering the pockets
in
which a man might be expected
to carry a pistol.
, , , , ,
‘SCHNELL,
FRANZ,’
cried a voice,
‘DAS BOOT,
DAS BOOT!’
as it spoke I saw two
of my fellows emerge
on the moonlit lawn.
, , , , ,
The young dark man leapt
for the window,
was
through it,
and
over the low fence
before a hand
could touch him.
I grappled the old chap,
and the room seemed
to fill
with figures.
I saw the plump one collared,
but my eyes were all
for the out-of-doors,
where Franz sped
on
over the road
towards the railed entrance
to the beach stairs.
One man followed him,
but he had no chance.
The gate
of the stairs locked
behind the fugitive,
and I stood staring,
with my hands
on the old boy’s throat,
for such a time
as a man might take
to descend those steps
to the sea.
, , , , ,
Suddenly my prisoner broke
from me
and flung himself
on the wall.
There was a click
as
if a lever had been pulled.
Then came a low rumbling far,
far below the ground,
and
through the window I saw a cloud
of chalky dust pouring out
of the shaft
of the stairway.
, , , , ,
Someone switched
on the light.
, , , , ,
The old man was looking
at me
with blazing eyes.
, , , , ,
‘He is safe,’
he cried.
‘You cannot follow
in time ...
He is gone ...
He has triumphed ...
DER SCHWARZE STEIN IST
in DER SIEGESKRONE.’
, , , , ,
There was more
in those eyes
than any common triumph.
They had been hooded
like a bird
of prey,
and now they flamed
with a hawk’s pride.
A white fanatic heat burned
in them,
and I realized
for the first time the terrible thing I had been up against.
This man was more
than a spy;
in his foul way he had been a patriot.
, , , , ,
As the handcuffs clinked
on his wrists I said my last word
to him.
, , , , ,
‘I hope Franz
will bear his triumph well.
I ought
to tell you
that the ARIADNE
for the last hour has been
in our hands.’
, , , , , Three weeks later,
as all the world knows,
we went
to war.
I joined the New Army the first week,
and owing
to my Matabele experience got a captain’s commission straight off.
But I had done my best service,
I think,
before I put
on khaki.
, , , , ,