‘I’ve seen your face before,’ he said accusingly. ‘Where was that? Aren’t you Albert Campion?’
XVI
CAMPION FROZE. GOOD God! Was the whole world after him? Of course it was. The recollection came like a scalding shower, shocking him back to reality. Of course it was. Hadn’t he killed one policeman and assaulted another? Wasn’t the whole countryside being scoured for him? He drew back in the shadows.
‘No,’ he said huskily. ‘No. That’s not my name. I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘Oh? No? Perhaps not. Perhaps not.’ The voice sounded partially satisfied but its owner did not relax. Through the blue mist from the reading lamp Campion took careful stock of this new potential enemy. He was a neat little man, a character. His dark coat was sleek and unobtrusively expensive, but his hat was too large for him and his white hair was untidy beneath it. At the moment he was staring at Campion unwinkingly with unexpectedly shrewd eyes.
He had a small attaché case by his side and a walking-stick across his knees. He looked very English, very narrow and conventional.
It was quite possible that they had met, of course, in the far-off lucid days thirty-six hours ago. Campion began to feel for a name which he might give if asked point-blank. He saw the danger of that just in time, fortunately. Suppose if out of the dark presses of his mind he fished up some famous name. The only one to occur to him at that moment was Dick Turpin. He had a strong feeling there was something against it, yet it had a vaguely attractive sound.
Fortunately the question did not come but neither did the stare waver. It remained transfixing him, paralysingly steady and confident, for what seemed the best part of an hour. He moved uneasily under it, leaning back in the leathery darkness to escape it, but it did not falter. It had almost demoralized him before he realized that the man was not seeing him but was looking through him into some introspective unknown.
This discovery was a relief, but all the same it was not easy to think of anything else with those intelligent eyes glittering straight at one in the blue gloom. In the end he was forced to speak in sheer self-defence. He was so anxious to be entirely natural and he tried out many openings in his mind and finally succeeded in being gauche.
‘Worried?’ he enquired baldly, adding at once, as the glitter faded and astonishment took its place, ‘I mean, the – er – times are very disturbing, aren’t they?’
The other man sat up. He was considerably flustered by the complete lack of ceremony. Campion could have kicked himself. Poor old boy. He was just a successful provincial business man chewing over the troubles of the day. There was nothing sinister about him, nothing to be frightened of. Surely his history as well as his character was written in his face. He looked tired, overworked, weighed down by the responsibilities of his job as the head of some firm or other. He was probably meticulously straight in his dealings, astute, too, in a narrow way, wealthy, and yet beset by problems. In fact, the great British public itself incarnate.
‘Yes,’ he said at last, having decided to forgive the intrusion. ‘Not too easy, are they? I think we must face it that they’re dangerous, damned dangerous.’
It was odd how he managed to convey such consternation by saying so little. Campion wondered if his business had been badly hit. He saw it as something to do with wool. A fine old firm, probably generations old.
His own mind was running feverishly on the subject. He wanted the man to talk, to babble on reassuringly about ordinary things; anything, the war, the weather, sport, A.R.P., anything to keep him as he was now, a normal comprehensible fellow human-being and not a pair of fixed introspective eyes in the shadows.
‘What worries you most?’ Campion demanded, knowing the question was infantile but panic-stricken lest he should escape again.
The old man blinked at him. ‘Treachery,’ he said.
Campion wondered if he had heard the word. It was so unexpected, so melodramatic. The stranger was looking at him again, too, and the blue light shone in his eyes.
‘You find it in your business?’ Campion enquired.
‘I do.’ The admission seemed to be wrenched out of the man. ‘I do, after fifty years. Treachery on a vast scale everywhere I look. Sometimes I wonder if my own eyes are deceiving me, but no, it’s there and it’s got to be faced.’
He was silent and Campion took a liking to him. He looked such a dogged old chap, sitting there with his square hands gripping the stick across his knees.
There was a long pause and then the shrewd eyes rested on the younger man again.
‘I could have sworn you were Albert Campion,’ he said. ‘It must be because I’ve been hearing about him tonight.’
It came back. All Campion’s apprehension of the past few hours returned with interest. He held himself together with an effort and forced his mind to go slow. It was too dangerous to ask questions. The old boy was too sharp. Besides, he had recognized him. The old fellow was not certain, of course. That was the one saving grace. The only hope was to take his mind off the subject and to talk of something else.
Campion searched wildly for a likely opening. What would interest a wool merchant, if the wretched man was in wool? Sheep, perhaps? No, that was absurd. He was losing his grip on reality altogether. This was madness. Oh God, what was he going to say next?
The old man leant back in his seat and crossed his short legs.
‘We’ve always fought our wars with money,’ he remarked. ‘I wonder if it’s going to save us now?’
Money! Of course. Campion could have laughed aloud. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Everybody was interested in money, It was a universal subject.
‘I don’t know,’ he said cautiously, choosing the safest lead. ‘It’s not to be confused with wealth, of course.’
‘No,’ said the old man briefly, ‘no, it’s not, but as it stands now, in its present position, it’s a very important factor all the same.’
He went on to talk fluently on the aspect of the struggle which evidently interested him. He appeared to be quite sound, but Campion made no attempt to follow him. He heard the voice and that was enough. He was soothed and reassured and it gave him a moment to think. Soon the train would come into the station. That was going to be a difficult moment. Detectives were almost certain to be there to meet it. They could hardly miss him, although they would be looking for a man alone and might with reasonable luck have only a telephoned description of him. If only there had been time he would have let them take him and have risked the enquiry. They could hardly hang him for murder in his present condition and almost anything would be preferable to this continuous hounding down. However, that was out of the question. He had a job to do and he must do it, at whatever cost.
Amanda came up in his mind and he thrust her out of it savagely.
‘The unspeakable peril of forced inflation,’ droned the voice on the other side of the compartment. ‘The loss of faith in the country’s essential soundness.’
Campion smiled at the man and nodded to him without hearing. How comfortingly ordinary he was. What a blessed piece of solid and familiar ground in this new world of quick-sands and blackouts. The intelligent thing to do was to stick to him, of course. It would be dangerous in a way, but at least it would ensure that he did not go trotting off to confide his suspicions to the first bobby he saw on the station.
Campion glanced at the man, to see that he had just finished speaking and now rose to his feet purposefully.
What was this? Campion grew cold. Was he going to turn out to be an elderly Chief Inspector after all? Was it a last-minute arrest? Campion seemed to remember having heard of something of the sort long ago. His face must have given him away because the old man was looking at him curiously.
‘We’re just coming in,’ he said. ‘Can’t you feel us slowing down?’
‘Of course.’ One crisis was over but another had arrived. ‘Of course,’ Campion repeated. ‘I hadn’t noticed. I was so interested.’
‘Really? That’s ver
y gratifying.’ The old man was opening the carriage door and he was laughing a little. ‘I’m glad to hear that. Ah, thank you.’ The final remark was addressed to someone outside on the platform. ‘What’s that?’
There was a muttering which Campion could not catch and then his travelling companion glanced over his shoulder.
‘I’m afraid there’s some trouble,’ he remarked. ‘The police are looking for someone on the train.’
‘Oh?’ Now that it had come Campion was himself again. His thin face became wooden and his voice entirely natural. ‘What do they want us to do?’
Once again there was a murmur from the official in the darkness. The old man nodded briefly.
‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Very sensible. They’ve shut off the main platform,’ he continued, turning to Campion. ‘This last coach is just outside the barrier. The fellow here suggests he takes our tickets for us and we go across the footway to the road. You’ll want a cab, won’t you?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Right. Well then, this is where we part. Good morning to you. I enjoyed our chat. I’m afraid it was all about nothing.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Campion and followed him into the grey darkness.
It was incredible. He had no time to realize his escape. It was like one of those wild rides in a switchback in a funfair. A blank wall looms up in front of the car. Nearer it comes, nearer and nearer, and then when the crash is imminent, when the impact and noise of it is almost a reality, the track swings away, the car swerves sickeningly, the corner is turned, and the delirious journey continues.
He stumbled across the platform, which was littered with goods trolleys, milk churns, and mailbags. On his right, beyond the police-lined barrier, there was all the usual confusion of arrival. The detectives were waiting farther on at the ticket gate, no doubt. Meanwhile his own getaway was made absurdly easy. No one took the least notice of him. The railway official led the old man and Campion followed the pair of them. That was all there was to it.
He thought he saw exactly what must have happened. His travelling companion was obviously a constant passenger on this particular train. Probably he had used it every day for the past ten years or more. Railway servants get to know a man like that and if he is a good tipper will go to endless trouble on his behalf. He must have been in the habit of using the final coach and doubtless this was his regular porter who was waiting to meet him.
They came out at last on to a narrow road on the goods side of the station. The old man’s car was waiting for him and he nodded to Campion as he climbed into it. A taxi crawled forward out of the darkness.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘The Treasury,’ said Campion briefly and climbed inside.
The cab moved forward at once. There was no questioning, no delay, no pause at the station gates. He could hardly believe it. He had got away as neatly and smoothly as if he had been a ghost. It was an invigorating experience and he began to feel absurdly pleased with himself. The gods were on his side. He glanced out of the window and saw the chill grey outline of shabby old buildings, piled sandbags, and painted road-signs. The streets were practically deserted.
A sudden thought occurred to him and he rapped on the window. The taxi drew into the curb and the driver turned to peer through the glass screen.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just on a quarter before five, sir.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Lumme! I ’ope so. Otherwise I’ve been drivin’ back through Einstein ever since the pubs shut last night.’
Campion ignored the pleasantry. He was thinking. Even if he was half-way down the straight to Colney Hatch he yet had enough sense to realize that no Cabinet Minister is liable to be available at his office before five in the morning.
‘You’d better take me to a hotel,’ he said.
The driver, who was in a ferocious mood, shrugged his shoulders elaborately.
‘Just as you say, sir. Got any particular place in mind?’
‘No. Anywhere will do as long as it’s open. I want to shave and get some breakfast.’
The cabby beamed. He was an elderly cockney, with the bright little eyes and thin rodent’s face of his race.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘since you’re not paying your income-tax for the moment, I see, what about the Ritz?’
‘I’ve got no luggage.’
‘’Strewth!’ said the driver. ‘I’d better take you ’ome and give you a nice brush-up myself. Sorry, sir, it’s the morning air on an empty stomach. What about this place ’ere? You’re outside it; that’s in its favour.’
Campion looked at the gloomy façade across the pavement. A porter in shirt-sleeves was sweeping down the steps and at that moment a policeman sauntered over to speak to him.
‘No.’ Campion did not mean to sound so vehement. ‘Somewhere more – more central.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ The cockney was looking at him very curiously. ‘It would help me if you’d give me an idea. Can’t you think of anywhere you’d like to go, sir?’
‘The Cecil would do.’ It was the first name to come into his mind and it was unfortunate.
‘You’re not by any chance Rip Van Winkle junior, are you, sir? The Cecil’s been pulled down some little time now. Must be close on twenty years.’
‘Oh well, take me anywhere. Anywhere where there’s a lot of people.’
The policeman had given up chatting to the janitor and was looking their way. The driver cocked an eye at his fare and an indescribably cunning expression flickered over his face.
‘You want a nice railway-station hotel, that’s what you want,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me.’
He drove off at a great rate and finally deposited Campion at a great terminus in Wyld Street, behind Charing Cross.
‘You’ll be safe and comfy ’ere,’ he said as he undressed himself to get change for a pound note. ‘Cosmopolitan that’s what it is. Lost in a crowd, that’s what you’ll be.’ And he winked as he took the tip.
There was no mistaking his suggestion. As Campion saw him drive off his old panic returned. He had given himself away by flunking the first policeman. Of course he had! These damned Londoners were too smart. They saw too much. Their experience of human nature was boundless. Probably even now the fellow was scuttling away to the nearest police station to take a list of wanted persons. That ruled his hotel out and he’d have to go somewhere else.
Better not pick up another cab here, either.
He walked away and crossed Trafalgar Square, cutting down behind the National Gallery into the narrow streets beyond. The light was growing rapidly and the great friendly shabby old city was beginning to sit up and stretch itself like a tramp who has been asleep on a park bench.
He found a big tea-shop, finally, and went inside and bought himself some breakfast. The food restored him considerably. He was surprised to find how much he needed it and how much more intelligent he became after eating it. He began to see some things with painful clarity. If he was to get any help from Sir Henry Bull he must get it at once before any news from Bridge reached that distinguished gentleman. That was evident. The thing to do was to get hold of him at once, at his private house. If he turned out to be as worried as Oates had been then he should have the full story and the personal consequences could not be helped. The one vital consideration at the moment was to reach someone in real authority before the police held everything up by arresting him and letting the law take its majestic course.
There was a directory in the telephone booth at the entrance but the name was not in it, which was not extraordinary since public men do not often advertise their private numbers. Campion began to feel his disadvantage again. London confused him. The city had the same effect on him as Amanda had in the beginning. He knew that he knew it very well indeed. It smiled at him and comforted him. But its face was just outside his present powers of memory. Whole streets were gloriously familiar but they had no names for h
im and no definite associations. His only way of getting about was by taxi. The drivers knew the way if he did not.
It was confusing and it took a lot of time, but in the end he got what he wanted. He accepted his disability and set about circumnavigating it with a dogged patience which was characteristic of him. One cab took him to the nearest public library, where he consulted a battered Who’s Who. The man was there all right. BULL, the Rt Hon. Henry Pattison, Kt created 1911, M.P. Honorary Member of the Universities of Oxford, St Andrews’, Leeds. Senior Master of Bridge.
Senior Master of Bridge. The words stared out of the tiny print at him, enlarging themselves before his eyes. What a fool! What a trebly mentally defective cretin! Of course. Miss Anscombe had told him that he already knew that the Masters were holding their meeting on the fourteenth. The man must have been there in the very town he himself had fled from. Probably even now he was tucked up in Mr Peter Lett’s best bed.
A sense of despair swept over him. He was beset, benighted, hag-ridden by his own horrible insufficiency. The gods were bouncing him on their great knees, saving him one minute, only to dash him within an inch of the abyss the next.
His eye travelled to the end of the paragraph, ignoring the impressive list of highlights in a useful career. The address was there, 52 Pytchley Square, W. He looked at it dubiously. It seemed scarcely worth while going there in the circumstances.
He decided to try it finally, because he could think of no alternative.
He reached the Square by taxi, which he dismissed as soon as he caught sight of the plane trees, continuing the journey on foot. The tall houses looked strangely virginal and unprotected without their iron trimmings. He could not understand what was missing at first, but when it came to him and he realized the reason for this nudity all the old fighting anger returned to his heart, coupled with the now familiar sense of impending disaster and the urge for haste. London’s railings, her secret private little defences, were torn away to feed the big guns.
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