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« on: February 17, 2023, 07:23:43 am » |
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INSIDE the front door a short passage led straight into a room set with small tables laid for breakfast; at one of these was sitting a grossly fat man with a bald head surrounded by a coronet of greyish curls. He looked round when the odd-job man opened the door to Colemore's knock; when Anthony asked for "Mr. Bilston," the fat man burst into peals of laughter. He had a jolly bubbling laugh so infectious that Colemore smiled and even the odd-job man lost his careworn look for a moment.
"Why, Bill!" said the fat man, between chuckles, "what a night you've 'ad! Fancy askin' for 'imself, can you beat it! Come on in and 'ave some breakfast, that'll pick you up. Just in time for the kippers, Mrs. Spink 'avin' struck lucky, an' a nice strong cup o' tea for our pore friend's 'ead, Joe, please. Come an' sit down at my table, quite like ole times, this is."
The odd-job man, with the air of one whom nothing could any longer astonish, admitted Colemore and disappeared towards the kitchen. Anthony walked into the dining-room and sat down at his new friend's table; there were three or four other men in the room breakfasting hastily with newspapers propped up in front of them, they glanced at Colemore with momentary interest and one said, "Good morning," after which they took no further notice of him.
"Proper cow of a mornin'," said the fat man, "by the look of it. Is it rainin' or only pretendin' to?"
"It's pretending hard enough to soak you," said Colemore, wearily rubbing his eyes.
"You look as though you 'adn't slep' for a week," said the fat man with another bubble of laughter. "What you wants is a good breakfast an' a nice lay-down. Nice to be one of them as can lay down in the mornin's if 'e wants to."
"You've said it," said Colemore, feeling that this conversation would be made much easier if someone would kindly tell him who Mr. Bilston was supposed to be and what he was alleged to do for a living. Joe, the odd-job man, came in with a tin tray loaded with food and tea things which he banged down in front of Colemore.
"I don't think I want any breakfast," said Anthony, having just had some. "A cup of tea----"
But Joe took no notice and went away again, and the fat man sat and laughed.
"You and your cups o' tea," he said. "Get on wiv it. Can't waste good food in war-time. S'wicked. Look at me. Never wasted good food in all me life, an' look at me now. Always 'appy, even when I've got to go out on a blarsted wet cow of a mornin' drivin' folks to places they probably don' want to go to, an' muckin' up me cab"--he called it "keb"--"so's I've got two hours' work cleanin' of it off. Am I dahn-'earted? 'Course not." He paused for a long drink of tea, and continued. "An' there's you, got nothin' to do but sit indoors like a lord watchin' the rain-drops runnin' down the windows till you drops off to sleep."
So this man was a taxi-driver.
"You always said trade was better in bad weather," ventured Colemore.
"So I did. So it is, what you can do on two gallons a day. Two gallons! What I says to the Pool Board las' time they cut me ration, 'What d'you suppose I'm tryin' to do with the old cab?' I says, 'Wean 'er?'" He laughed again at his own joke.
Colemore became aware that he was taking a violent dislike to this genial soul. He had one of the jolliest laughs ever heard, one which would have made his fortune on the music-hall stage; his fat face was creased in lines of good temper, but his little brown eyes were as cold and hard as agates. It occurred to Anthony that there was something rather terrifying about this taxi-driver.
The other men in the room finished their breakfasts and went out; Colemore ate the kipper since eating was easier than talking, and the cheerful taxi-driver sat and bubbled with laughter and conversation. He talked about bombs and taxi-fares and the price of whisky; it was obvious that he was one of the gang since he had been so ready to rescue Colemore from his embarrassment on the doorstep, yet not once did he say "You did right---or wrong---to come here," or "Did you have any trouble on the way?" He took everything for granted; it was very disconcerting.
Presently the front door opened with no announcing knock, and a man came quickly into the room. He was a slim hatchet-faced man dressed in extremely well-cut clothes, and carrying a small suitcase; he looked noticeably out of place in the third-rate boarding-house. The taxi-driver rose to go as soon as this man entered, and it was plain that he had been awaiting his arrival.
"Newman," said the newcomer, addressing the fat man, "get your cab out and be round here as quickly as you can."
"Very good," said Newman, "In ten minutes time? I've got to get 'er started." He went down the hall and out of the house.
"Listen, Bilston," said the newcomer, in a pleasant, cultured voice, "I'm going to take you to a decent hotel, you can't stay in a place like this. I expect you could do with a few hours' sleep. By the way, my name's Symes."
"I'm beginning to feel I've done nearly enough for the moment," admitted Colemore. "For one thing, I've never had such an uncomfortable journey."
"Had to stand, did you? Yes, the trains are frightfully overcrowded these days, it's hopeless to get a seat unless you start from the terminus. Have a cigarette?"
"Thanks, I'd like one. But look here, I can't go to an hotel without any luggage."
"I've thought of that," said Symes. "This is your luggage," indicating the suitcase. "I hope the things will fit reasonably well."
Colemore felt almost awe-struck. This organization, whatever it might be, was horribly efficient; he nearly said so but thought better of it. He took refuge in politeness instead.
"I am really extremely obliged to you," he said earnestly, "for all the trouble you have taken."
"A pleasure," said Symes carelessly, and the conversation flagged till Newman opened the front door and revealed a taxi standing outside with the engine running. Symes got up, Colemore followed suit, saying diffidently, "Er---shouldn't I pay somebody for that good kipper?"
"Oh, leave half-a-crown on the table," said Symes. "Somebody'll find it."
They drove to a small hotel in Princes Square, Bayswater, where Symes surprised Colemore by asking for a double-bedded room and actually getting it. A less pleasant moment came when the proprietor left them alone in the room and Symes locked the door. "You don't want to be disturbed," he said, meeting Colemore's distrustful look with the competent firmness of a trained nurse putting a new patient in his place. "It's not nine o'clock yet, quite early. If I were you I'd get into pyjamas, climb into bed and go to sleep. I'll wake you in time for lunch."
"You ought to be running a nursing home," growled Colemore, nevertheless doing what he was bid.
"I'd hate to," said the unruffled Symes.
"Do you mean to say you're going to sit and brood over me while I sleep?"
"I've got nothing to do this morning and there's a book I want to read. It seems a good opportunity. Do you mind if I smoke?"
Colemore repressed the classic reply, "I don't care if you burn," and merely said, "Not at all. Please do," in what he hoped was a suitably casual tone. He got into bed and pulled the bedclothes over his head.
He was awakened by Symes who was shaking his shoulder and saying that it was past one o'clock and time for lunch. Colemore rolled over, groaned, and said he could sleep for a week.
"You can have another instalment after lunch, if you like," said Symes, laughing. "No purchase tax on sleep. Did you hear those bombers going over?"
"No---yes, at least I dreamed about a Heinkel. Were they Heinkels?"
"No. Lancasters."
"Oh," said Colemore. "Gosh, I want a shave."
"Have one, then," said Symes cheerfully, and produced the necessary kit from the suitcase.
Washed, shaven, and changed into clean dry clothes, Colemore was conducted downstairs to a fairly adequate lunch and treated to a Benedictine and coffee in the lounge. "Drink that slowly," said Symes. "It's probably the last Benedictine in London."
Colemore regarded his glass with the veneration it deserved. "Is that why we came to this place?" he asked.
"Largely," said Symes.
Ten minutes later the porter came in haste to say that Mr. Symes was wanted on the telephone---in the hall, just to the left of the door----
"You'd better come too, if you don't mind," said Symes politely, and Colemore went willingly. One might pick up some scrap of information.
Symes picked up the receiver and said, "Symes speaking. Who is that, please?... Oh, yes... Yes, quite all right, thanks. No, none at all... Glad to hear it... Very well, I will... Good. I'll do that... Yes, certainly... Right, thank you. Good-bye."
"Fat lot I learned from that," said Colemore to himself as Symes put down the receiver and turned towards him, smiling broadly.
"Well," he said, "I've got to leave you now. Think you can manage all right?"
"Oh, quite," said Colemore, "thanks very much. But what d'you mean?" He glanced round but there was no one within earshot. "I'm not a prisoner any more, eh?"
"No, no," said Symes. "You're all right. I'm sorry, but one had to make sure. It wasn't too unpleasant, was it?"
"Not at all, quite the contrary. But--can I go anywhere I like, or stay here if I like?"
"If I were you," said Symes, "I'd stay here, if only because it's nearly impossible to get a room these days, and this is quite a decent place. If you do move, be sure to let me know, won't you? Alan Symes, and number 8, Meon Road, Teddington will always find me."
"Teddington," repeated Colemore. "Quite a nice place."
"Yes, isn't it? By the way, you'll want some money, here you are." Symes gave him a comfortably fat envelope, and went on, "I shall be seeing you again soon, I hope. I might very possibly ring you up one evening. You don't normally go to bed before eleven or so, I suppose? No, well, that is a convenient time. Good-bye, glad to have met you. Where's my book---oh, here. Good-bye."
They shook hands like old friends, Symes picked up his hat, settled it at a comfortable angle, smiled at him and walked out. Colemore, in a kind of daze, stood in the hall and incredulously watched his departure.
"Well," he said to the hat-stand, "what d'you know about that?"
Anthony went up to his room, bathed his face in cold water as a help to clear thinking and sat down on one of the beds to tidy up his confused mind.
In the first place, it was plain that the enigmatic Symes had been prepared to stay all day and that night with him, and possibly for longer, until Colemore's good faith had been established; hence the demand for a double room.
Even more obviously, the watch and ward had been called off in the telephone message Symes had received after lunch. Somebody had been able to vouch for him. Evidently he had been accepted as genuine by German Intelligence, as he had designed, and had arrived in London under his own steam, again as designed. True, he had had a helping hand here and there, but the first half of the scheme had come off. The second half was to get in touch with British Intelligence; he puzzled over this for some time and eventually gave it up for the moment.
He passed several intensely boring days doing nothing in particular, and nothing happened. Fortunately the weather continued to be so bad that it was natural to go out with a hat pulled down over his eyes, a scarf round his neck and a collar turned up. He resisted a natural desire to look up some old friends, he was really afraid that he would be followed and that evil consequences to the friends would ensue. It seemed to him that London had never been so dull and that everyone was busy except Anthony Colemore. He tried museums and picture-galleries, but they were mostly closed and their best exhibits removed to safer places. Almost the only place which remained unchanged was the Tower of London, and a man can't happily spend his days at the Tower, especially when he is an escaped prisoner. There were not many theatres open and in any case he was not in the mood for theatres. He went to the cinema every day, it was somewhere warm and dry to sit in; and he went for long walks. But the bomb damage depressed him beyond tears and at the end of a week he felt that if he saw just one more cinematograph show he would be sick.
"I could write to British Intelligence, that's an idea. Address it 'British Intelligence, London,' and just post it. Ask them for an appointment. But I can't have an answer sent here, it wouldn't be safe. I shouldn't give this address, I should just ask them to put an advertisement in the agony column of the Times. 'War Office, Thursday two-thirty,' something like that."
He was almost happy for a whole morning thinking over this idea, but by degrees doubts began to creep in.
"I've got no proofs," he said confidentially to one of Landseer's lions in Trafalgar Square. "If I say I'm Beisegel I go back to the prisoner-of-war camp. It's no use saying I'm Brampton, they'll soon bring along somebody who knew him; besides, I've a nasty feeling that there was something a bit fishy about Brampton, the Germans liked him far too much. And if I say I'm Colemore, I'm sunk at once. If I could do something useful before I write to them----"
The lion stared benignly over his head and there seemed the beginning of a smile on its face. "You look as though you knew all the answers," said Colemore irritably, and then a thought struck him. "Of course. I can go and have a look at that house at Teddington."
It was still early in the afternoon so he went at once, arranging in his mind during the journey what he would say when he reached the house. He would knock at the door and probably it would be opened by a man. Not necessarily at all, Alan Symes was the sort of man who was just as likely to have a smart parlour-maid. On second thoughts, not in war-time; all the smart parlour-maids were in the Services, but he might have a wife and even a couple of children. Presumably the place was Symes' private residence. Anyway, he---Colemore---would knock at the door and ask if Mr. Symes was at home, and after that be guided by events. If Symes, or whoever interviewed him, said, "Why did you come here?" he would say he was anxious at not having heard from them, something untoward might have happened. After all, Symes himself gave him that address.
The train stopped at Teddington; Colemore got out, walked out of the station and asked a postman to direct him to Meon Road. It was some little way, a quarter of an hour's walk, quite. Colemore memorized the direction and set out.
Meon Road proved to be a lane leading into the country; fields on one side and detached houses on the other, each standing in its own garden with a drive to the front door. Thoroughly desirable residences if a trifle large in these days of domestic shortage. Number eight was a gabled house with two stories and attics, creepers grew upon the walls and the garden contained a pergola and a number of ornamental trees such as laburnum and flowering cherry, all leafless of course. Colemore did not feel particularly drawn to it.
"I think I'm being a fool," he said thoughtfully. "However, it's no good funking it now."
He opened the gate, walked up the drive to the front door, rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. He stood in the porch and observed the garden, which did not interest him. At the end of a couple of minutes he rang the bell again with the same result.
"Nobody at home?" he said, and stood back from the porch to look at the house. It was obviously furnished, he could see that since the curtains were not drawn. Nothing remarkable about that. No smoke arose from any chimney.
"This is rather an anti-climax," said Anthony to himself. "I suppose I can just go back to London again."
He walked round the house. By this time the evening was drawing in and the garden filling with shadows. There was a path to the back door, and outside this there stood a pint bottle of milk.
"They are all out," said Colemore, and curiosity seized upon him like a fever. Alan Symes' house, with nobody in it----
"If they come back and catch me inside, I can say I came here for safety because I thought I was being followed in London. I broke in because I was afraid to hang about. I might have been noticed, mightn't I?"
He found a scullery window and pushed the catch back with a piece of broken slate; he climbed inside and stood listening. There was not a sound in the house and moreover it had that empty feeling characteristic of unoccupied rooms. He went exploring. Kitchen, painfully tidy and rather cold, they cooked by electricity. A hall with a staircase leading upwards and three doors standing open; dining-room, small sitting-room, large sitting-room. Undistinguished furniture, bought in suites in Tottenham Court Road by the look of it. Dining-room in mahogany, small room oak, drawing-room maple with stuffing. Upright piano by Broadwood. The drawing-room sounded rather less dead because there was a clock ticking on the mantelpiece. In the smaller room there was a large desk which Anthony regarded with some interest but dared not touch. Getting into the house might be explained away but breaking into the desk would look a little suspicious.
He stood in the hall looking upwards and straining his ears, from somewhere behind him there came a very faint tick. He turned round and listened intently, it came again from a small cupboard on the wall. Colemore opened it, it contained nothing more exciting than the electric meters and as he looked at it the hand on one of the dials moved.
He was just about to shut the cupboard again when a sudden thought struck him and he watched the dial. The hand moved again.
"Somewhere in this house," said Colemore to himself, "there's a light on. Then why didn't I see it from the outside since there are no blinds drawn? Except in the attics, perhaps. Very odd. Who would sit in the attics in preference to an imitation Heppelwhite drawing-room? Maybe there's a cupboard somewhere with a light in it and somebody's left it burning. It would be both kind and patriotic to switch it off, wouldn't it?"
He went upstairs very quietly and looked round four unexciting bedrooms and a bathroom. No lights anywhere there. A narrow staircase led up to the attics, and he paused at the foot looking up. There was no sound to be heard, but somehow the top storey did not feel so uninhabited as the rest of the house.
"I cannot resist," said Colemore, and ascended the stairs, which creaked. At the top was a tiny landing with a window in it and two doors, one ajar and the other shut. From underneath the closed door there showed a thin line of light; by the twilight creeping in at the window it could be seen that this door had two strong bolts on the outside.
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