Part 1 - The Thirty-Nine Steps Audiobook by John Buchan (Chs 1-5)


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Transcript:
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.
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