The Bat that Flits

by Norman Collins

  By now, completely free and without even a car to tie us down, we strolled off down the High Street together, me and my little black devil. For a man with my background three drinks is nothing, repeat nothing. It merely helps me to look the future in the face a bit straighter. It would be the next two or three that would decide things. I knew that. And I knew that even then it would be entirely in the laps of the distillers. Because, when I’m drinking alone, I never know for certain whether I’m going to end up morose or frisky. There isn’t ever anything for it, therefore, but to go on with the series and find out the empiric way.

  So far, I was still the sort of customer that all decent-class hotels pray to see coming up their front steps. This time I chose the best of the second best and continued with the treatment. I was rather dainty about it, I remember. And, in between the sips, I ate a few peanuts and potato crisps from a dish on the bar counter. Up to that moment, indeed, I even considered changing my plans rather and dining in the hotel with a bottle of Burgundy all to myself and a glass of brandy and a cigar afterwards, possibly finishing up with a seat in the two-and-fours at the local flick-house.

  But the memory of other provincial hotel dining-rooms, out of season and with only one or two old ladies ranged round the walls like treasures out of Pompeii, was a bit too much for me. They are a separate race, these hotel old ladies, with their lace chokers and their artificial pearls and the little saucer of scraps for the dog, and they have a way of looking at a man that makes him feel hairy and dissolute even when he’s only thinking about his income tax.

  But already something was happening inside me. There had been a distinct click as that last drink had gone down. And I now wanted something a bit more exciting than a hotel dining-room.

  At moments like this, instinct is a wonderful guide and counsellor. Put me down in any foreign capital, blindfold me and turn me round three times, and I could still make off in a bee-line for the dive quarter. For example, even though I had never been in Plymouth before, I knew that on leaving the hotel I had to turn left and then left again to get to the Barbican. And I was feeling marvellous. I was humming cheerfully to myself as I walked along. And when I saw a match-box lying on the pavement I took a running kick at it. Nothing very sozzled in that. If I had been put in front of a police surgeon I could have graduated with honours in all subjects.

  I was now spreading my drinking very carefully. Only two singles in any one pub was the rule—and no doubling backwards and forwards between the Public and the Saloon pretending that they were really two different pubs.

  The last two pubs that I had been into were no better than cold, rather coffiny little compartments with barmaids who were evidently cousins of the original bearded lady of Bodmin. But what was important was that compared with the first few drinks that I had taken, every extra single now counted about four. And the signs of it were coming thick and fast by now. It wasn’t simply that I was feeling sorry for myself. I can manage that often enough when I’m stone sober. What was much more to the point was that I was becoming fumbly. I had to chase one wet sixpence up and down the bar before I could get my fingers under it.

  It was my fourth pub, rather a large noisy one, this time. And I wasn’t quite so steady on my feet by now. When I had finally pocketed my change, I went and sat down in one of the little alcoves at the side. There was a sailor from H.M.S. Something-or-other and a girl already sitting in the opposite corner. The sailor was a hot-looking young man with a complexion like sausage-meat, and the girl was quite slim and rather pale. She had a lock of fair, soft-looking hair that kept falling across her forehead every time she bent forward, and her hands were the long delicate sort with the veins showing.

  When the sailor got up and excused himself, the girl smiled across at me. She was rather a pretty girl and I smiled back. That decided her, and she moved up nearer.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to another drink,” she told me.

  It was only the West Country in her voice that saved it: otherwise, it would have been just the kind of wheedling, cheap stuff that sets my teeth on edge. But, as it was, I smiled back all right.

  “If you hadn’t asked, I was just going to suggest it,” I told her. “That’s what I was going to do—suggest it.”

  I had now reached the careful and repetitive stage. With me, that’s one of the surest signs of all.

  “Well, make it a gin and lime, will you?” she asked.

  “Gin and lime it shall be,” I said. “If you hadn’t told me I’d have ordered a gin and lime just the same. That’s what I’d have ordered—a gin and lime.”

  It was a bit difficult getting out of the alcove. I’m a large man and the table jutted out over the seat rather awkwardly. But it was getting back again that was the really tricky part. I remember that I was all tangled up with her legs by the time I was settled in again. But the drinks were all right— I can’t remember when I’ve ever spilt a drink that I’ve been carrying.

  We were getting on quite nicely together by now. The girl had just told me that her name was Pat, and I had said that I could have guessed it if she had only given me the first letter. Then the sailor came back. At first, everything was all right. He even asked if he could borrow my matches.

  It was the drink that I’d bought his girl that caused the trouble. If she’d wanted another one, he said, she should have asked him. His face had reddened up a bit by now. And it occurred to me that perhaps he wasn’t a very nice sailor. But I still knew enough not to interfere and just sat tight, looking at my finger-nails.

  Then he began to get rough. He picked up the free drink and emptied it on to the floor beside him. And, in doing so, he upset mine as well. And I still think that it was to my credit that I should have taken it all so calmly. I behaved in correct U.N.O. fashion, and merely tabled a vote of censure before getting down to anything like counter-violence.

  “Are you aware, sir,” I asked, intoning as precisely as if I were in a church dramatic society, “that you have spilt my drink?”

  It was obvious from the way the sailor took the remark that he was aware. He thrust his face close up to mine.

  “Washermatterwivyou?” he demanded.

  Having done so, he turned back to the girl beside him. And putting out a great red hand, he began pulling her about. That decided me. I saw then that I would have to intervene in an effort to resist aggression.

  “Unless you stop mo-lest-ing that girl,” I heard myself saying slowly and rather beautifully, “I shall be forced to knock you down.”

  The gallant, or Old Virginian school, is one of the phases through which I always pass on these occasions. And this was merely me passing through it. The sailor, however, did not appear to be unduly cowed. Instead of replying, he caught hold of me by the lapels of my coat and began banging my head against the panelling behind me. I was a bit dizzy by the time I managed to struggle to my feet, but I still could see straight enough to hit him. As a matter of fact, I hit him rather hard. He fell back on to somebody else’s table, and then the whole place became like Marseilles on VE night. There was broken glass everywhere. He came crunching through it as he made his way back towards me. Then, when I saw that he really meant business, I went into a clinch with him. That was what put us both on the floor together. And it was then that the girl started screaming.

  I don’t remember much more of that part. Because by now the sailor was propping me up in the crook of his left arm while he was hitting me with his right. Smash. Smash. Smash. I felt the first one, and merely counted the other two. Then I must have passed right out. When I came to again the girl was mopping at me with a handkerchief—my handkerchief, it turned out to be—and the landlord was saying: “Oo started it?”

  It was only the evidence of the girl that saved me.

  “This gentleman was just sitting by himself,” she said. “I know, because I saw him. Then Jim came along and socked him. I feel ever so ashamed of Jim, really, I do.”

  We left shortly after that, and the g
irl put her arm through mine. What I needed, she said, was taking care of. And she strongly recommended me to have one more just to settle my nerves. So we went into another pub, and sat quietly holding hands. We didn’t stop long, however, because we could see the top of Jim’s head over one of the partitions. He was going over the whole episode, and was describing exactly what would happen to me if he ever saw me again. We neither of us liked the sound of it. And when we had got outside again, the girl suggested that as it was so late I had better go back with her.

  Chapter X

  1

  It was still quite early when I woke up next morning. And I have noticed that when I have been well and truly soused the night before I always wake up an hour or so earlier than usual—which means that I don’t miss even a single moment of the hangover.

  In the circumstances, I behaved with considerable dignity and self-restraint. Knowing that my little friend of last night was watching me from behind the bedclothes, I assumed an air of easy and tranquillising nonchalance. Going over to her mirror, I first of all examined the eye that the sailor had bunged up for me. Then I put on last night’s collar and combed my hair down.

  The mistake that my companion made was in sitting up on one elbow to say good-bye. She had the sort of good looks that get better as the evening grows later. Seen in the dawnlight, there was the disconcerting appearance of something that had just been dredged up from the bottom of the Sound. I was glad that I had spent the night in the armchair.

  I caught the first Torpoint ferry of the day. And I was back in Bodmin by nine. But the actual homecoming wasn’t exactly what I had expected. Naturally I didn’t go up to the front gate. Instead, I swung in at the side entrance and garaged the car in the coach-house where I always kept it. I was just heaving my legs out over the coachwork when somebody stepped forward. It was a policeman, and just behind him was standing an inspector.

  “Good morning, officers,” I said, speaking a trifle on the loud side, as I always do when I am trying to appear bluff and hearty. “You’re quite right. It is out of date. But the new one’s in the post. Very smart of you to detect it. I’m afraid this licence business must give you an awful lot of extra work.”

  The constable looked a bit taken aback and confused at that. He began passing his tongue backwards and forwards across his lips as though they didn’t work properly when dry. But the Inspector was a different kind of animal altogether. If I had caught his eye a little earlier I might even have dropped my voice instead of raising it. It was a cold, ice-like eye.

  “Dr. Hudson?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Would you mind, sir, accompanying me to the Director’s office?” he asked.

  It was one of those polite commands that are all the more commanding for being so polite.

  But I was doing some pretty quick thinking.

  “Anything wrong, officer?” I said.

  And the reply was the usual one.

  “Just a few questions we’d like to ask you, sir.”

  Nothing very revealing in that. But also nothing very reassuring. Nothing very reassuring either in the fact that he asked the constable to stand by the car and not leave it until he had come back again. Inside me, I felt a cold patch developing.

  And, as soon as I saw the Director, I knew that something really serious must have occurred. He was sitting at his table, hairy and miserable, with his chin supported in his hands. He looked like the Forsaken Merman. And I can’t say that his face brightened up when he saw mine. Not that this surprised me. I hadn’t brightened up myself when I had seen my own face.

  Then I noticed something else. The whole Institute seemed to be exuding policemen this morning. There was one standing over in the corner just behind me.

  The Inspector got down to work straight away.

  “Would you mind telling us where you spent last night?” he asked.

  That was awkward. I had come down to Bodmin to make a fresh start. And I had seen enough to know that the Director was the kind of keen family man who might not like the idea of having his assistants temporarily occupying top rooms in Plymouth.

  So I started lying.

  “As a matter of fact, I slept in the car,” I said.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I’d drunk rather too much cider,” I said. “When I’d had the second half-pint I decided it was safer not to risk anything. So I just parked the car and dossed down.”

  “Where was that?”

  “In a lane.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Oh, about thirty miles from here. Say thirty-five. I didn’t measure it.”

  “Can you name anywhere it was near?”

  I paused.

  “It was between Okehampton and Exeter,” I said finally. “On the left as you go up.”

  At that moment I accidentally caught the Inspector’s eye, and then avoided it again.

  “Okehampton and Exeter are about twenty-five miles away from each other,” he told me.

  “You don’t say,” I answered.

  “Well, can you be a bit more exact?”

  I shook my head.

  “Sorry,” I said. “If I’d known you’d be interested I’d have looked it up for you.”

  “Well, can you describe the spot?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said confidently, “I can do that. There was a sort of hedge on one side and a gate on the other. I’d know it at once because there was a haystack just a bit farther on. And a tree. I’m practically certain there was a tree.”

  “It must have been cold in the car, wasn’t it?”

  “Nice of you to ask,” I said. “As a matter of fact, it was.”

  “Did it rain?”

  “I was asleep,” I answered.

  “There isn’t any hood on your car, is there, sir?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s another thing.”

  “Were you wet?”

  “Very,” I said. “The dew’s terrible in these parts. Especially at night. I wonder nobody’s done anything about it.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “All the time.”

  “See anyone you knew?”

  “Didn’t even see anyone I didn’t know. I’ve told you: I was asleep.”

  “How did you hurt your eye?”

  “Fell against the windscreen.”

  “Can you remember the name of the public house you went into?”

  I paused.

  “Well, I can’t be sure,” I said. “But no doubt you can check it. I think it was The George. Or it may have been the Duke of Something. Or possibly The Chequers. There are such a lot of pubs, aren’t there? It wouldn’t surprise me if you said it was The Crown.”

  The Inspector drew in a deep breath as though he needed one.

  “Are you ready to sign what you just told me?” he asked.

  “Pencil, please,” I answered.

  2

  It wasn’t until I had joined the others in the common room that I learnt what all the fuss was about. And, when I did learn, I didn’t like it. During yesterday evening somebody had opened up the Old Man’s safe and made off with the one slope that counted for anything. In short, Gillett’s culture was missing.

  There were some strangely glassy-looking eyes all round me. But that may have been because nobody was allowed either to enter the building or leave it. The entering part didn’t matter. But the not-leaving-it bit was different. It doesn’t take more than about five minutes for a normal healthy man to develop a sense of claustrophobia. And some of the people weren’t exactly what I would call healthy and normal to begin with. There was little Dr. Mann, for instance. He was behaving as though he had still got the missing culture hidden on him somewhere.

  “Now, it is terrible,” he said. “Like a prison camp.”

  “Well, let’s hope they soon find it,” I said. “There won’t be any let-up till they’ve got it back again.”

  But that didn’t suit him either.

  “It will only be good if th
ey never find it,” he replied. “Never. Never.”

  “Don’t say it so loud,” I advised him. “If you do they may take you up on suspicion.”

  Dr. Mann turned several shades paler. His face went turnip colour. This was most disturbing, but it was turnip-shaped already.

  “Why me?” he asked. “Please say that you do not mean me. It could not be me. I can account for myself all the time, no? It is very frightening when there are police.”

  It was Hilda who tried to soothe him. But she wasn’t looking her best this morning. She was pale, and had shadows under her eyes. A person who’s just had an entirely sleepless night might look rather that way.

  “But our police aren’t frightening, really they’re not,” she said. “They only want to find out everything.”

  The Dioscuri apparently thought differently, however. Swanton was the first to speak.

  “Why not call it a Police State and be done with it?” he demanded of no one in particular. “It’s much better calling things by their proper names.”

  Kimbell ran his fingers through his hair-fuzz, and nodded approvingly.

  “Our friend here”—he indicated Dr. Mann, who recoiled visibly as soon as he saw that stained finger-nail pointing at him—“will soon be able to see the wonderful British police force at close quarters. They’ll be arresting me next for playing chess with a foreigner. Then we can all compare notes.” He turned to me as he was speaking. “Have you been done yet?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Rubber truncheons, pins under the nails, and all the rest of it,” I told him. “But they didn’t get anything out of me.”

  It occurred to me afterwards that perhaps rubber truncheons and torture-chambers weren’t really so very funny to the Dr. Manns of this world. But it was too late now. The door had just opened and the Director’s secretary stood there.