***
When England first at Heaven’s command
Taught other nations cricket
They used to spend three days at most
At or about the wicket.
But now by Heaven’s command the game
Goes on and on and on. The same
Batsmen appear each day to bat.
It may go on for weeks like that.
Nothing in short could well be drearier
Than timeless England v. Imperia.
(Oh, my God, keep me from going lunatic
There’s no time limit in the Test.)
From The Ancient Groundsman
Plan B
Very early on Monday morning the sentries, stationed at the gates of the Oval, saw the first signs of the gathering of another enormous crowd. The sensational events of Saturday, together with the tension prevailing over the week-end, had whipped up public interest to fever heat. Would there be a repetition of Saturday’s extraordinary scenes? Would these mysterious Bad Men strike again, and if so, how? Such topics swamped even the possibility of an enormous score on the part of Lethbridge.
Scotland Yard had ordained that everyone must be searched before entering the ground and this caused considerable delay—the last people, in fact, did not pass through the turnstiles until it was almost time for the tea-interval—but the vast throng bore the discomfort with fortitude. It was realized that a crisis was in being and the multitude passed the long wait by singing patriotic songs. Early in the day the arrival of the players, each accompanied by a plain-clothes policeman, was loudly cheered. A small boy who, not understanding about the crisis, asked Hugh for his autograph was immediately arrested amid thunderous applause and cries of “He’s one of the gang”, “Down with the Bad Men!” and so on.
Within the ground an air of tension prevailed, even greater than that which had preceded the opening overs on Saturday. As the time for play drew near, the troops were withdrawn from the pitch. They marched smartly off the ground to the accompaniment of resounding cheers. It was noticed, however, that a large number of police had been drafted to the Oval; they were stationed all round the playing area, greatly interfering with the view of the spectators. A further force was held in readiness behind the pavilion ready to be rushed to any point where their presence might be necessary. In the pavilion itself were to be seen the Colonial Secretary, somewhat embittered about the report of his impending resignation, as well as six massive stern-faced men smoking pipes and wearing bowler hats. It was to be observed that these men—none other than the Big Six—wore gaily striped ties, thus cleverly creating the illusion that they were famous cricketers.
Sir Timothy was very indignant about it and inquired coldly of Steady as a Rock Posse,
“Who are your friends?”
“D.D.I. Cordon,” answered Steady as a Rock promptly, “A. W. I. M. Y. B. A. M. M. S. Darby, W. D. I. E. L. Narkley and others. All famous ex-cricketers.”
“I do not believe it,” replied Sir Timothy. “Never in the course of my long and honourable career have I seen six famous cricketers sitting in a row wearing bowler hats. I believe these men to be detective friends of yours and I shall complain to the committee.”
The conversation was not continued, for just then Norman Blood led his team out into the field, and a few minutes later Thrust and Parry, accompanied by two uniformed constables, marched to the wicket. A journalist wrote that they were surrounded by a battery of policemen, but subsequently crossed it out. It seemed to him to be nonsense, as indeed it was.
There is no need to describe in detail the events of that day. For, contrary to expectation, the game proceeded in normal fashion without sensational interruption and abler writers have dealt with it. Both Mr. Beetling Grim and Miss Felicia Portcullis wrote striking accounts, and the voice of Mr. John Beltravers penetrating all over England described the play as it progressed. Let it suffice to say that England’s bowlers, Truth and Frank Manleigh, bowled with such subtlety and gusto that Imperia were all out by tea-time for 175 runs, of which the indomitable Lethbridge had scored 89, remaining in the words of sixteen journalists, “undefeated at the close”.
Hugh and Crigh went again to the wickets, and when Crigh was l.b.w. at 17, Norman Blood himself went in. It was seen at once that he was in an inspired mood. Carrying on the good work of Truth and Frank Manleigh, he attacked the bowling confidently, while Hugh kept up his end with unshakable patience, only falling to a catch at the wicket during the last quarter of an hour of the day. At the close of play England were fifty runs ahead with eight wickets in hand. England had fought back.
ALL QUIET ON THE OVAL FRONT screamed the evening papers. YARD FOILS TEST WRECKERS. And again, BAD MEN AT BAY. But before the Big Six drove away in their police car, they had seen the troops reoccupy the wicket, and the sentries posted at the gates. It was felt that Steady as a Rock Posse hit off the situation admirably when he remarked,
“In a case like this, the Yard leaves nothing to chance.”
* * *
Dinner was over in the Blood town house. The port circulated; the fragrance of good cigars filled the air. Sir Timothy, reminiscent as always at this period of the evening, was relating to Norman, the Vicar and Monica, the story of how he had been run out by Josser Slingsby in 1894.
“And so there was I,” he concluded his narrative, “when one short of the coveted three figures, as we used to call them in those days, on my way back to the pavilion, thanks to Josser Slingsby’s stupidity. Josser never recovered. It broke him up. He never played again. He spent his last years in a Home for Aged Cricketers under the delusion that he was a superannuated race-horse. In a final flash of sanity he sent a message asking my forgiveness. In order to ease his last moments I forgave him, though, of course, I made it quite clear that there was never a possible run.”
“Poor fellow,” murmured Monica, her girlish eyes full of tears. “I can’t help feeling sorry for him.”
“He made his mistake,” answered Sir Timothy sternly, “and he paid the price. Cricket is like that.”
“Men must play and women must weep,” sighed the Vicar. “I’m sure poor Josser would not have had things otherwise.”
“He could not have continued to mix with cricketers on the old terms,” said Sir Timothy. “Perhaps a man of stronger character would have shot himself at the time. Another glass of port, Vicar?”
“Thank you, Sir Timothy, thank you. This, if I may say so, is a noble wine.”
As the saintly old Vicar was in the act of pouring himself out another glass, the Blood butler entered the dining-room. He addressed himself to Norman.
“There is a masked man outside, Mr. Norman. He says that he comes from the Selection Committee who urgently need your presence.”
“Very well, I’ll come.”
Norman excused himself, rose from the table and left the room.
Upon the pavement outside stood a burly figure, a soft hat pulled down over his eyes. Beneath the mask which he wore his jaws worked ceaselessly. A saloon car was drawn up by the kerb; a second masked man sat at the wheel. Norman had no suspicion that anything was amiss. He knew well the Selection Committee’s love of secrecy. Nothing was more likely than that they should send a closed car and two masked men to fetch him. Accordingly he addressed the stranger with his usual frankness.
“You come from the Selection Committee?”
“Sure, brother. Step inside, big boy.”
Still unsuspicious Norman obeyed. Instantly the car slid forward down Sleek Street. It was then that Norman felt something hard poking into his ribs; and a voice in his ear said,
“You’re in a tough spot, buddy. If you don’t wanna hand in your dinner-pail, better act old-fashioned and don’t try to pull a fast one. Likewise keep your puss shut or I’ll sure give you the heat.”
The unwelcome truth burst upon Norman in an instant. He had been hoaxed.
* * *
There had been an unobserved witness of this scene, a male fi
gure, who at the first appearance of the car had slunk out of sight. Nevertheless he had overheard the conversation between the bogus messenger from the Selection Committee and Norman Blood. Now, as the car moved forward, the watcher, obviously an athlete to his finger-tips, sprang for the back of it, clambered on to the luggage-grid and hung on grimly.
This unseen watcher was none other than Joe Prestwick, who, strictly speaking, should not have been in this part of London at all. It was his great love which had brought him to Sleek Street. Since he learned that he was to be twelfth man at the Oval Joe had not seen Monica. She had written him a girlish note expressing her grief, to which he had replied in manly style.
“We must accept the decision of the Selection Committee, my darling, and remember that the most important thing of all is to beat Imperia. I keep biting my lips a good deal and clenching and unclenching my fists in unrestrained fashion, but we must remember that perhaps the wicket would not have suited me. Goodbye, dearest Monica. I shall always keep the belt and remember your extraordinary radiance. Your broken-hearted unselected Joe.”
So he had taken his leave of her. All the same he could not forbear to take his stand outside the Blood house at night and gaze up at the windows behind which his divinity lived and moved. He had been able to slip away from the other players at the hotel without difficulty, since no-one bothered to guard the twelfth man.
He had been standing thus on the pavement of Sleek Street, gaping at the lighted windows, when the mysterious car drove up. Lover’s thoughts were instantly driven from his mind by the conversation he overheard. Unlike Norman Blood, he read books and frequently visited the pictures, and the truth flashed across his mind. Something was wrong. This big man in the mask did not speak like a messenger from the Selection Committee; on the contrary, he spoke like all the crooks of whom Joe had ever heard. He saw it all. The villains who had drugged Hugh and Crigh were trying to do away with England’s captain. Instinctively, just in time, he sprang for the back of the car.
For a moment, as the car sped up Sleek Street, an unworthy thought passed through his mind. If Norman Blood were not at the Oval tomorrow, when it was England’s turn to field, the twelfth man would be called upon. He would play for England and be able to claim Monica.
Only for a moment, however, did this shameful thought occupy his mind. He dismissed it instantly. At all costs he must rescue Norman Blood. At all costs Norman Blood must be at the Oval tomorrow. Goodbye, Monica.
He bit his lips fiercely, but could not clench and unclench his fists, because of the necessity of hanging on to the luggage-grid.
The car sped on through the night.
* * *
On and on through the night sped the car. London presently was left behind; they were out upon the Great South East Road, heading for what strange secret destination?
So Norman Blood wondered, as he sat silent, a prey to the bitterest thoughts. If he were not at the Oval tomorrow to finish his innings and captain the side! A thrill of despair passed through him at the thought. He upbraided himself savagely. What a fool to allow himself to be hoaxed! He had let down the team. He was unworthy to be captain of England. And yet, on reflection, it was difficult to see how he could have acted otherwise. The scheme to abduct him had been so devilishly subtle. What more natural than that these mysterious masked messengers had come from the Selection Committee? Then he thought again of the morrow. What would his brave boys think of him, if he were not there to lead them when play began? What would the great world of cricket lovers think if England’s captain must be marked in the score-book “retired abducted”? A groan escaped him at the shocking thought.
“Say, brother,” remarked his companion, who still held the revolver against his ribs, “you sure don’t sound so good. Shall I give you the story how I rub out Al Camponoli?”
“Certainly not,” replied Norman coldly.
“It’s nice woik the way I plug that sap. I guess I get Al’s stomach like it was an ironmonger’s store.”
“I do not wish,” said Norman with angry disdain, “to have any conversation with a villain like you.”
“Okay, big boy.” His companion sighed and chewed for a moment in silence, before he added, “You folk sure hand a guy the dead pan.
Norman made no reply, partly because he did not understand this method of conversation, which was so different from that of his fellow-cricketers, partly because he was plunged again in bitter thoughts.
On and on, hour after hour, the car purred on its way. The surroundings had long since become quite unfamiliar to Norman. They tore through busy well-lit towns, through shuttered villages, along deserted country roads, the silent, masked driver picking his way with unerring precision. And gradually, it seemed to Norman, the aspect of the country through which they passed grew wilder and wilder. Towns, even villages, grew more scarce.
On and on, hour after hour—whither? And every hour, Norman reckoned desperately, took them forty or fifty miles farther from the Oval. Those fatal words “retired abducted” seemed to dance before his eyes in letters of flame.
It must have been well after midnight, when the car drew up before a small stone house in the loneliest part of a vast moor. Obeying a command from his captor, who still kept the gun close into his ribs, Norman descended from the car and walked towards the house. A single glance about him told him that there was small hope of finding help in this abandoned spot.
They passed through the door of the house and came into a small ground-floor room, where sat a strange, hooded figure. Though Norman could see nothing of his face he was strangely aware of a dominating, magnetic personality.
“Good evening, Mr. Blood,” said a thin precise voice from below the hood. “You and I are going to have a little talk.”
Norman folded his arms with quiet dignity.
“I do not think we have anything to talk about.”
“Certainly,” replied the precise voice, “we are going to talk about this match of crickets.”
Norman shuddered, but did not answer. The voice from below the hood went on, sinking now into a dreadful threatening softness,
“If you value your life and liberty, Mr. Blood, I think you will be wise to give me your promise, as an Englishman and a cricketer, that Imperia shall win the match.”
* * *
Outside the window crouched Joe Prestwick. He had not dared to leave his place of concealment until the masked driver had also disappeared into the house. He had trembled for a moment lest he should be discovered, but the driver did not come round to the back of the car. On the contrary, somewhat to Joe’s surprise, he stood for a moment as though in deep and painful thought and then with an almost tragic sigh of,
“Heavens, what a filthy fella I am!” followed the others inside.
Joe descended and looked about him. Beneath the stars he could see nothing but a vast expanse of empty moor. He guessed from the look of the scenery that he was somewhere in the heart of Loamshire.
Cautiously he crept towards the house and crouching beside the window peered in. The spectacle which met his eyes was one to daunt any patriotic cricketer. In a small room stood Norman Blood, face to face with a small, hooded figure whose veiled aspect somehow suggested extraordinary menace, while the burly, masked man whom Joe had seen on the pavement of Sleek Street kept him covered with a revolver. The masked driver who had sighed so deeply was not there.
“I felt sure,” Joe reflected, “that those men were not genuine members of the Selection Committee. How glad I am that I jumped up behind the car!”
But for the moment he was helpless. He could do nothing but crouch there, awaiting a chance to help his captain.
***
Sense, of late
Is out of date
It is enough
To be tough.
Literary Ballad
Extract From The Diary of Sawn-Off Carlo
So we get this cricketing palooka to the Boss’s hide-out in this place called the heart of L
oamshire. He keeps his kisser closed in the auto like I say, but this is a great grief to me since, as I tell my dear old Momma, I ain’t given a guy the heat in weeks and maybe I’ll be losing the way of it. When I was around with Alfredo the Bum I used to rub out two or three suckers a week, and a guy sure gets the habit and feels kinda sissy when he’s not qualifying for the Hot Seat. They fried Alfredo the Bum for the Doughberg Killing to the grief of one and all. Alfredo the Bum was a great guy and knew his onions.
So the auto stops and I say to this cricketing palooka,
“Step out, brother, pronto, and don’t start anything because your happy young life don’t mean a thing to me.”
So we ease along into the hide-out, and there we find the Big Shot sitting all hooded up so this Blood guy won’t see his face, and looking like he was the Boss of the Ku Klux Klan.
“Good evening, Mr. Blood,” says the Big Shot.
Maybe this Blood guy knows he’s in a tough spot, but he sure puts on a swell act. He folds his arms and looks at the Big Shot old-fashioned. He is wearing a tuxedo and looks like a guy outside a dime novel. Maybe he thinks presently he’ll pull a fast one, but I got him covered.
“Now,” says the Big Boss, “I wanna talk to you, Mr. Blood.”
But this Blood guy calls the Big Boss an old-fashioned name, because it is plain to one and all that he is plenty hit up about our not being certain punks known as the Selection Committee.
“See here, Boss,” I say, “let me beat up this guy, pronto.”
But the Big Boss says, “Restrain your boyish enthusiasm, Carlo. Me and Mr. Blood are going to have a little talk.” So he says to this Blood guy that if he promises to rig the ball-game, so the Imperians win, he’ll let him go, and everything will be okay and hunky-dory. That gets the guy plenty sore.
“How dare you suggest such a thing!” he says. “I would rather die.”
The Amazing Test Match Crime Page 9