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« on: February 17, 2023, 04:38:27 am » |
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CLOSING time came to the Spread Eagle and the patrons dispersed with a merry noise. Anstruther, warm with wine, song, and kindliness, took Colemore by the elbow and steered him across the street.
"Up this way," he said. "Dark, isn't it, when you first come out? But it isn't far, thank goodness. Quite a cheery evening, wasn't it; feeling better, are you?"
"Much better, thanks," said Colemore. "It was only----"
"I know, I know. Never mind, things'll be all right, you'll see. I say, that was a good song you sang, new one on me. How did it go?"
"It's not new at all, it's very old," said Colemore, "I heard it when I was a boy."
"'There was an old Farmer,'" began Anstruther. "That's not quite right."
"'There was an old Farmer,'" sang Colemore, and just at that moment dimmed lights slid up level with them and stopped.
"Going home, gentlemen?" said the Inspector's voice from inside the car. "Can I give you a lift? I'm going your way."
"Good idea," said Anstruther, immediately stumbling into the back seat. Colemore fervently disliked the idea of any further contact with the police but there was no help for it, so he followed Anstruther into the car which drove off at once. Curious the way the police seemed to pop up every time he started that song. He leaned back and yawned uncontrollably, it had been a long exciting day and he was tired. He'd rather nothing more happened that night except bed---an armchair would do. He yawned again, the police car turned suddenly off the road up a short drive and stopped.
"Why, we're right home," said Anstruther, rousing himself. "Nice of you to bring us right up to the door, Inspector. Come in and have a glass of beer, come on."
"I think perhaps it would go down quite well," said the Inspector.
"And your driver?"
"He's a teetotaller," said the Inspector hastily. "Shan't be long, Gregson."
Anstruther unlocked the door and went in, the Inspector politely stood back for Colemore to precede him and followed into the house.
"Let's see if there's anything in the larder," said Anstruther. "Besides beer, I mean. I could do with a bite of something and I don't suppose Bill's had any supper either, have you, Bill?"
"No," said Colemore, "now you mention it, I haven't."
"You won't sleep if you're hungry," said Anstruther wisely, and picked up a tray which he loaded with plates and cutlery. A crusty loaf, butter, cheese, and some sliced ham. After prolonged search in several wrong places, a jar of pickles. Beer in crown-capped bottles led to another hunt for the opener. Colemore yawned till the tears came to his eyes and wished his new friend were less hospitable.
Finally, tankards for the beer. Anstruther was justly proud of his pewter tankards, "always use them. Beer don't taste the same out of a glass." He picked up the tray, Colemore carried the bottles, and the Inspector followed behind with the tankards.
"This way," said the host, going out of the kitchen. "We'll sit in the front room and turn on the gas fire. Hullo, the front door's open, didn't you fellows shut it?"
"I thought I did," said the Inspector. "I will this time, anyway," and did so. "Sorry," he added.
"Doesn't matter," said Anstruther. "I don't suppose we'll be burgled with a police car on the doorstep."
The front room was small, but pleasantly furnished. Long velvet curtains covered the window to the floor, and matched the brown carpet, deep armchairs held copper-coloured cushions which repeated the glow of copper bowls on the tables and candlesticks on the mantelpiece. The three men sat round the fire dealing with ham and beer and talking amicably about this and that.
"D'you suppose you'll catch your German prisoners?" asked Anstruther, "or are they miles away by this time?"
"They're not so far off," said the Inspector, his eyes on the fire. "They stole the Phillips brothers' boat which was lying at moorings as usual; trying to get out to sea, I suppose. But she ran aground on a mudbank by Folly Point, so they left her. I say, 'they,' actually there was only one man in her."
"Have you got him?" asked Anstruther.
"Not yet. But we shall."
Colemore's heart sank. Von Rohde ashore by himself----
"How do you know there was only one?" he asked.
"By the tracks in the mud."
"Oh, of course."
"I suppose you will catch him," said Anstruther.
"We ought to," said the Inspector with a short laugh, "considering the number of people that's out looking for him."
"I wonder where the other one went," pursued Anstruther. "You'd think they'd keep together, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," said the Inspector, and then asked Anstruther point blank how long he had known Colemore.
"Why, actually I only met him this afternoon. I gave him a lift, you know. But he's a native of these parts; I've only lived here three months."
"Is that right, Mr. Thistlethwaite?"
"That's right," said Colemore steadily.
"Ah," said the Inspector, and leaned back comfortably in his chair. "Then I expect you remember the old Corn Exchange being burnt down, somebody was telling me about it only to-day. That was a bad fire, I gather. Let's see, how long ago would that be? Ten--twelve years ago, quite."
"Oh, quite that," agreed Colemore. "I wouldn't like to say exactly, I've nothing to date it by."
The Inspector finished his beer and rose to his feet in order to put the tankard on the mantelpiece. He was a big man, he seemed to Colemore to tower over him like the tall Agrippa of the nursery rhyme.
"Curious," he said quietly. "Very curious."
"What is?" asked Anstruther sleepily.
"That the Corn Exchange here dates from Queen Anne and is as good to-day as when it was built."
Colemore's heart seemed to contract, and Anstruther looked up with a puzzled expression.
"The Corn Exchange?" he said. "That's the tall red building in Market Street with the pillars in front, isn't it? Headquarters of the local Home Guard Battalion."
"That's it," said the Inspector, still looking down on the top of Colemore's head. "Mr. Thistlethwaite," he added, "I am taking you into custody on suspicion of being an escaped German prisoner. You will accompany me to the police station now, and to-morrow morning you will be taken to the camp to see whether they can identify----"
The window curtains parted and a hand came out, holding an automatic, in the shadow a beaky nose could dimly be seen and nothing more.
"Put your hands up at once," said an authoritative voice. Anstruther and Colemore obeyed at once; but the Inspector, who was still holding his empty pint pot, turned like a flash and hurled it at the automatic. He missed, there were two cracks and two spurts of flame, and the Inspector dropped like a log with blood running from the side of his head. Anstruther said, "Oh dear, Oh dear," in an oddly breathless voice, dropped his arms and seemed to collapse by degrees. His knees gave way and he sank slowly to the floor. Colemore was staring at him, frozen with horror, when there was a click and the lights went out.
---
At this point in his story, Colemore turned to Hambledon and said, "You see now why I go all bashful when I meet the police. As though breaking jail wasn't enough, I am certainly wanted on a murder charge. They will assume that I shot the Inspector, and poor old Anstruther too. Who'll believe this wild story about a hand with an automatic----"
"I do," said Hambledon. "Cheer up, no murder charge lies against you. Unless, that is, there are more violent deaths in the rest of your story."
"There aren't," said Colemore. "But----"
"The Inspector wasn't killed, though he had the narrowest escape possible. The bullet merely stunned him, slid along the outside of his skull cutting a furrow--hence the blood--and wound up in a copy of 'Bulldog Drummond' in the bookcase. So appropriate. He recovered without difficulty and told a story which coincides with yours."
"Anstruther----"
"I'm sorry to say Anstruther is dead, but he died of heart, not from a bullet. The excitement, you know. His heart was weak, he told you that himself."
"He died on my account, for all that," said Colemore. "If I hadn't gone back to him after seeing von Rohde off---but it was such a foul night and I was so tired----"
Hambledon nodded sympathetically. "You might like to hear the rest of that scene---I take it you don't know much about it since you thought the Inspector was dead----"
"I don't. I left at once---I'll tell you in a minute."
"The police driver, Gregson, who had been left outside in the car, was heard by some passers-by to be howling for help. This was about an hour later. He was lying under a bush in the garden firmly tied up, he had been stunned. When they went into the house they found the Inspector still unconscious but quite comfortable. A first-aid dressing had been applied to his head which was resting cosily upon a cushion. Poor Anstruther had been properly laid out, his eyes closed and his hands crossed upon his breast. I don't know why."
"Heaven knows I don't," said Colemore. "By the way, while you are clearing up my loose ends; tell me, did they catch Von Rohde?"
"No."
"No? Good heart alive, why not?"
"They just didn't," said Hambledon, "that's all. Please go on with your story, it is more than enthralling. The lights went out----"
---
The room was not dark even then on account of the glow from the fire, but Colemore was momentarily blinded and in that moment he was caught by the wrist and hustled out of the room. "Quick, come on," said the same voice which had spoken from behind the curtain. Colemore was pulled through the hall and down the drive to a small van which was standing just inside the gate, pushed into the seat beside the driver and told to go where he was taken, he was being looked after and everything would be all right. Then the van drove away.
---
"One moment," said Hambledon. "You didn't see the face of the man behind the curtain at all? Not even by the firelight?"
"No," said Colemore. "I suppose I ought to have done, but it all happened so quickly. I felt stupid, too, as though events were getting quite beyond me. Shock, I suppose, it was all so beastly, especially about poor Anstruther."
"You can't describe the man at all, then?"
"Except for a general idea that he was about my height, no. His voice puzzled me, though, I'm sure I've heard it before somewhere but I still can't remember where. It worries me."
"Any accent of any kind?"
"Absolutely none. Just ordinary standard English."
Hambledon nodded. "Sorry to interrupt. Please go on."
---
The van had hardly started on its journey when the driver half-turned towards Colemore and placed a wallet in his hands.
"You'd better look at that," he said, "we may be stopped by the police at any moment. You'll find a torch in the cubby-hole in front of you. Don't let it shine on the windscreen, or you'll blind me with the reflection."
"What is all this?"
"Identity card and personal papers. Take a good look at the identity card and memorize the number. You know how these numbers are arranged, don't you? Oh. Well, the letters in front are the district and the first number indicates the house in which you were on the night the cards were all issued. The last number is your own. It is seven. There were nine people in that house that night--are you listening? You must remember all this in case the police ask you."
"I'm listening," said Colemore.
"There were nine people in the house because it's one of those bed-and-breakfast places where men lodge who are out at work all day. There was the proprietor and his wife---they were numbers one and two, of course---a maidservant and odd-job man, three and four; and five lodgers, all men. The proprietor's name was Spink. Repeat, please."
Colemore did so.
"You happened to be number seven. The address, as you can see for yourself, is 51, Willowmore Road. It is a turning off the top end of Gray's Inn road, near King's Cross. The house is one in a row of ugly stucco houses each with a small balcony over the front door."
"Is it really?"
"What d'you mean?"
"I mean, is there really a house such as you describe at that address?"
"Of course. It's a real house in a real street and is still run for bed-and-breakfasts by Spink and his wife and the odd-job man. Only the maid has gone, into a factory. And, of course, the lodgers vary as time goes on."
"I see. I wasn't sure how these things were worked."
The driver's face, dimly seen by the lights of a passing car, expressed contempt, but he went on without comment.
"As you can see, your name is Henry Gwynne Bilston, commonly called Bill. Have you got all that?"
"I'll teach it to myself as we go on," said Colemore. "What else is there in here? Letters?"
"Only bills, some paid and some not. There's some money in there, too. And a few odd London bus tickets, don't throw them away. They prove you were in London last week; or, at least, they suggest it."
The driver relapsed into silence while Colemore repeated his new story to himself. Presently lights were waved before them and the van obediently stopped. Men in Home Guard uniform, great-coated and armed, came to the windows and asked to see the identity cards. Colemore and the driver handed them out; they were examined by the light of torches and handed back without comment.
"Drive on," said one of the picket in a tired voice; and the van went on again.
"Those two escaped prisoners," said the driver with a laugh like a snort, "have fairly roused the country, believe me. Home Guards called out, police, special constables, wardens, coast watchers, fire-watchers, Farmer Giles with a double-barrelled gun, old Uncle Tom Cobley and the Wurzel-under-Slug Town Band. All that fuss over two poor little stray Germans. They'll be badly off if they haven't got any friends, won't they?"
Colemore did not know what he was expected to say, so he merely grunted and went on studying his identity card. After a run of nearly three hours, during which they were stopped twice more, the van came into the streets of a town; and Anthony, who had been dozing, sat up.
"Is this Leeds?"
"It is. We're a bit late, being stopped so often, but I expect you'll catch your train. There's a man waiting for you with the ticket."
There was. The van pulled up at a corner just short of the station and a man stepped out of the shadows to meet it. Colemore got out, saying, "Good night, and thanks very much," to the van-driver, who did not answer, but merely drove away. The man on the pavement grabbed Colemore by the arm and said, "Come on, run. You're late. Here, take your ticket, don't lose it."
Together they pelted along the pavement, turned into the station entrance and ran towards the barrier. Before they reached it, the man released Colemore's arm, slowed up, and immediately disappeared in the darkness. There was a considerable group of people pressing towards the barrier; Colemore joined it, hoping he did not look as conspicuous as he felt. Inside the barrier there were---horrid sight---police, looking at intending passengers as they passed through. Just before it was his turn, a whistle blew on the platform, the long, wavering, hurry-up whistle of the guard anxious to start the train. Somebody was shouting, "London train! London train! Hurry along there, please," and the passengers began to run, Anthony with them. The police did not snatch him, he hurled himself into the train only to find that there were, of course, no seats to be had. He stood in the corridor all the way to London.
King's Cross at seven-thirty on a wet miserable winter morning is not the most cheerful place on earth. Colemore, aching with fatigue, hurried down the platform and was stopped by the police. They examined his identity card; asked him where he had come from, to which he replied, "Peterborough," and where he was going, to which he answered, "Home to bed. Gosh, that train!" They smiled indulgently and let him pass. He went straight to the restaurant and swallowed two cups of railway coffee one after the other as rapidly as possible without scalding himself. Roll and butter and Spam restored him to life, and he sat in a corner to think things over.
The question was, where to go. If only British Intelligence had a definite office like the Admiralty or the Air Ministry it would be easy. But Colemore, like most Englishmen, had no idea where Intelligence lived and worked; only an imaginative picture of a corridor going off where no one would expect a corridor to exist, leading to rooms containing people who had discarded their names and were only known by numbers.
He must get under cover soon; if he wandered about in the light of day it wouldn't be long before he was arrested either as the missing prisoner Beisegel or the missing prisoner Colemore.
Of course, there was that lodging-house in Willowmore Road, and that was conveniently near. But if it was inhabited exclusively by persons like that revoltingly capable man behind Anstruther's curtain, he didn't think he wanted to cultivate them, at least, not till he'd had a good night's sleep. Who were they, anyway? German Intelligence, presumably, since no one else would shoot an Inspector of Police to rescue an escaping German prisoner. But how did the man know he was an escaping German prisoner?
His eyelids began to close and he shook himself awake. The plain fact was that there was nowhere else to go at the moment. He knew people in London---one man in particular---who would help him, but it might take all day to find him if he had moved in the last four years. Or been bombed out. He might even have been killed.
Colemore rose wearily to his feet and walked out without being conscious of having come to a decision. He crossed the Euston Road, turned down Gray's Inn Road like a sleepwalker, and found himself at a corner staring at a street-name on the corner of a shop. Willowmore Road. Ugly stucco houses with a little balcony over the front door, and the high blank wall of a warehouse closing in the far end of the road.
He came to number fifty-one, walked up two steps, knocked at the door and waited. "Now I've done it," he thought, and at that full consciousness and energy returned like a flood. This couldn't be any worse than Van Drom's house in Flushing, and he had got out of that all right.
The door opened and a man stood there looking at him, a shabby, rather grubby old man in a striped jacket. The odd-job man, presumably. Colemore realized with a sinking feeling that he did not know whom to ask for; he had forgotten the landlord's name and the only one that occurred to him was his own by adoption---the one on his identity card.
"Er---Mr. Bilston at home?" he asked.
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