“I think I can bear it.”
“Well, to start with, I’m rather what you might call ‘on my own in the world.’ My governor, who was a grand chap, was badly wounded at Jutland, and he pegged out when I was a kid of seven. The mater didn’t live very long after that: I—I don’t think she really wanted to. I was brought up by my grandmother, and somehow or other I managed to scrape into Dartmouth. Passed out at the end of twenty-seven, and for the last eleven years I’ve been knocking about various parts of the world, trying to learn something about my job. When I’m on leave I generally put in a few days with my granny at Tonbridge Wells, and then jog up to Town and do a round of the theatres. Nice, healthy, innocent sort of life, but not very exciting when you describe it to anyone else.”
Sally surveyed him thoughtfully over the rim of her teacup.
“You’re terribly keen on the Navy, aren’t you? I mean you simply hate the idea of leaving it?”
“It would be a bit of a wrench. You see, I’ve been in it all my life, and I really haven’t very much in the way of interests outside. I suppose I could take to keeping rabbits but even then I should probably go wrong when it came to sorting out the colours.”
“You’ve certainly had your share of trouble and bad luck. I wish there was some way in which I could help you.”
“Help me! Why, you’ve been doing nothing else for the last two days.” Owen wiped his fingers carefully, and then, leaning across, patted her on the shoulder. “Suppose we give my affairs a rest and talk about you instead. I’m simply thirsting to hear all about your past life.”
“Oh, it’s very ordinary and dull, I’m afraid.” Sally hesitated. “I have just one thing in common with you: both my parents are dead too. Daddy was a doctor in Suffolk, and he was killed in a motoring accident. Until my mother died we lived on in a small house in Ipswich. I was nineteen then and Sheila was a year younger. She had about a couple of hundred a year of her own which had been left to her by an aunt, but it was all in the hands of trustees and she couldn’t touch the capital. Still, it was better than nothing, and she was so beautiful to look at that as soon as we came up to Town people simply raved about her, and she soon began to make quite a lot of money sitting for artists and photographers. I got a job drawing designs for a firm of decorators in Kensington. That’s how I met Ruth. She was a customer of ours, and she was so pleased with some work I did for her that she offered to put up enough cash to start a little show of our own. Of course I jumped at the idea. We had a bit of an uphill fight to begin with, but Ruth’s a splendid organiser and awfully clever at business, and last year, as I told you, we actually made a profit. It was only natural that she should feel worried when I brought you back. You see, if we had been arrested for hiding you from the police it would all have come out in the papers, and everything would have gone to blazes!”
“You both behaved like a couple of grand sports,” declared Owen. “My boss thinks the same, and if there’s any way of keeping your names out of it you can bet your life he’ll fix it up for us. He’s having a consultation with the Home Office, and we must wait and see what they decide to do.”
“How about you?” enquired Sally.
“My orders are to stop here until I’m sent for. The tragedy is that I shan’t be able to get down to Chelsea.”
“That will be very good for you. The quieter you keep, and the fewer people you talk to, the better.” Sally put down her cup and glanced at the clock.
“I say,” pleaded Owen, “you’re not thinking of going just yet? Why, there’s a whole crumpet left, and all that beautiful cake.”
“I must get home. Mrs. Higgins, our char, is away for a couple of days, and I promised Ruth faithfully that I’d be back by five. I’ve got to help her clear up the shop.”
“This is very distressing. I’ve got so used to having you around it’s become an absolute necessity.”
“But you didn’t know I existed until a couple of days ago.”
“Oh, yes. I knew you existed, though I’d never had the luck to run across you.”
“You’re talking dreadful nonsense. I expect it’s that knock on the head. It often leaves a patient with a touch of delirium.”
“Is there any cure for it?”
Sally hesitated an instant, and then, stooping down, quietly just brushed his forehead with her lips.
“That’s all I can think of,” she said.
“Marvellous!” Owen closed his eyes and sighed blissfully. “I suppose you couldn’t repeat the dose?”
“Not to-day.” She straightened up again, flushed and smiling. “It only works properly when it’s taken in extreme moderation.”
III
“You are certain there is no mistake?”
“I tell you I’d recognise the guy anywhere. Why, wasn’t I with him long enough to know his blasted face again if I happened to run across it?” With an impatient jerk Craig flung away the stump of his cigar. “As for the girl—well, I can’t be so dead sure about her; but, all the same, I’m ready to lay ten to one, though, she’s the same party. Something about her chin and the way she holds her head—obstinate-looking little bitch, if ever there was one.”
“Go on,” ordered von Manstein curtly.
“Thought you’d be interested to know a bit more about his lordship, so as soon as they’d finished their lunch I slid out after them. They didn’t stick together, not for long. When they got to Trafalgar Square the girl sheered off, while her bright boy friend headed round into Whitehall. Directly he crossed over I guessed he was making for Queen Anne’s Gate, and sure enough, that’s where he fetched up.”
“Number 17A?”
“You’ve hit it. He’s one of Greystoke’s lot, that’s a dead cert, and like as not the girl’s in the same racket.” Craig paused and moistened his lips. “Damn them both,” he added viciously. “I wish to God we’d stopped their mouths when we had the chance down at the bungalow.”
“It might have been advisable.” The Count remained silent for a moment, staring meditatively at his carefully polished finger-nails. “I thought I knew all Greystoke’s men, but I may be mistaken. From what you tell me, it looks as though he were a new hand at the game, and that he has been set to work on the Medlicot business. If so, it means that they suspect Sutton of being mixed up in it, and that’s getting too near the truth to be altogether healthy. It is a matter on which we must obtain some definite information as soon as possible.”
“What would it be worth to me if I was to dig it out for you?”
“I don’t think we should quarrel about the price. When the safety of our organisation is in question money is of no consequence.”
Craig leaned forward, an ugly gleam in his heavily lidded eyes. “Well, the girl’s our mark, if you ask me. She’s his fancy piece, and I guess she knows all about it. What we’ve got to do is to grab hold of her and make her talk.”
“Quite a promising idea.” His companion nodded slowly. “How would you suggest putting it into execution?”
“I’ve thought of a way it might be done, so long as your people will play straight. I ain’t risking my neck again, not for the mere fun of it.”
Von Manstein stiffened. “We Germans do not betray our friends. When the Reich makes a promise, that promise is carried out.”
With a furtive movement Craig drew his chair a shade closer.
“Then listen,” he said softly.
Chapter XI
Dusk was beginning to settle down over the surrounding forest when the bus from London came to a halt outside the timbered front of the Chigbury Arms. Gathering up her well-stocked shopping-bag, a pale, quietly dressed woman rose from the front seat, and following in the wake of one or two of her fellow passengers, stepped out on to the narrow pavement. She had barely alighted before the bus was again in motion, rumbling off along the peaceful village street and disappearing down the long
, white, level road which stretched away to Epping and Chelmsford. It was the last journey of the day, and neither the driver nor the conductor was in any mood to dawdle about unnecessarily.
“Good evening, Miss Wilson.” The stout, cheerful-looking landlord, who was standing in the doorway of the inn, raised his hand in a friendly salute. “Thought you must have gone up to Town, seeing as there weren’t no one at the ’Ollies.”
“I had to visit my dentist, so I took the chance to do a little shopping.” The speaker displayed her bag. “Did you want to see me about anything?”
“It was only that bottle of whisky and the syphon you ordered. I sent my lad along with them after we closed, and he couldn’t get no answer. Didn’t like to bring ’em back, so he slipped round behind and shoved them in the toolshed.”
“Oh, that will be all right. I don’t suppose anybody has stolen them.”
The landlord shook his head doubtfully. “ ’Tain’t too safe nowadays, not with all these ’ikers and motorists about. Why, the number o’ glasses I’ve had pinched outer the bar this year is enough to drive a man to drink.”
“I expect that comes from being so close to London. Still if we weren’t, you wouldn’t get so many customers.”
“That’s true, Miss. Can’t have it both ways, as my old dad used to say.”
“Well, good night, and thank you very much.” Catherine Wilson cast an apprehensive glance at the thick layer of cloud which was stealing up from the west. “Looks as though we were going to catch it,” she added, “so I think I had better hurry home before I get drenched.”
Turning into a lane a little way past the inn, she struck off briskly along its deserted course. On either side lay flat stretches of rough turf where a few rather meagre-looking ponies were enjoying a belated supper. Some three hundred yards farther a dark, straggling line of foliage marked the outskirts of the forest, and by the time she had covered about half the intervening distance a thin, driving rain was already beginning to fall. Quickening her pace, she pressed on through the gathering dusk, and at last, just as the drizzle was developing into a steady downpour, the dim outline of a cottage suddenly appeared amongst the surrounding trees.
It stood in the middle of a small clearing, hemmed in on three sides by bushes and undergrowth. At the back was a circular patch of kitchen garden, while in front a strip of lawn, with broad, carefully tended borders, ran down to within a few paces of the road. Except for a white-painted wooden gate in the centre the whole place was enclosed by a stout hedge of thickly growing holly.
Making her way hastily up the path, the owner produced a key and unlocked the front door. It led straight into what was evidently the main room of the cottage, an oddly shaped, low-ceilinged apartment with two diamond-paned windows and a large, old-fashioned, red-brick hearth. Stretched out luxuriously on the rug lay a big half-Persian tabby cat, with an empty saucer reposing alongside. Roused by the sudden intrusion, it rose leisurely to its feet, and arching its back, emitted a long, plaintive, reproachful miaow.
“Was he left all alone then, and had he finished up his milk?” Bending down over her offended pet, Catherine stroked him caressingly. “Never mind, Pushkin,” she added, “I’ve brought you back a nice tin of salmon, and if you’re good and patient for a few minutes you shall have some for your supper.”
Having lighted the lamp and thrown off her wet coat, she passed through into the small kitchen at the back. Her first action was to fill a kettle and put a match to the oil stove, which, like everything else in the place, was spotlessly clean. Then, returning to her bag which she had deposited on the table, she set about unpacking and sorting away its contents. All the while the cat, which had followed her in, was circling round ingratiatingly and rubbing itself against her legs.
It was just as the last article, a half-pound of freshly ground coffee, was being emptied into a tin that she suddenly remembered about the whisky. With a frown of annoyance at her own forgetfulness, she turned back towards the sitting-room in quest of her coat. At the same moment the thing happened. Startlingly clear above the patter of the rain came a quick, insistent tapping at the side window.
A stifled gasp, in which relief and terror appeared to be equally blended, escaped from her lips. In a sort of stumbling run she hurried across towards the back door, and with shaking fingers wrenched aside the stiff bolt. There was a shuffle of footsteps, and out of the wet gloom a leather-coated figure slipped past her and tripped blunderingly over the frightened cat.
“Jim!”
“Shut that damned door!”
Like a person in a dream Catherine did what he commanded, and then, facing round, leaned back with her hand pressed against her heart.
“How long have you been here?” she whispered.
“God knows. I thought you were never coming back.” Tugging off the thick peaked cap that partially concealed his features, James Wilson flung a quick, furtive glance in the direction of the sitting-room. “You’re all alone? No chance of anyone barging in?”
His sister shook her head. “Oh, Jim, what made you do it? Why did you try to escape? They are sure to find you again, and then it will be worse than ever.”
“Never mind that now.” The speaker gave a sudden shiver and drew his wet sleeve across his forehead. “A drink’s what I want—that’s if you’ve got any.”
“There’s a bottle outside: I’ll fetch it for you. You had better come into the other room. It’s more comfortable there, and you’ll be quite safe.”
Unresistingly Wilson allowed himself to be conducted through the doorway and shepherded towards the small sofa alongside the fireplace. Regardless of the damage inflicted by his muddy boots, he slumped down wearily upon the clean chintz covering, while, crossing to the nearest window which looked out upon the lane, his sister hastily pulled the curtains.
“I will get you something to eat at the same time. I’m sure you must be starving.”
Without waiting for a reply, she hurried back again into the kitchen, and as though too exhausted to concern himself with the direction of affairs, the fugitive rolled over on to his side and began slowly unbuttoning his coat. Dirty and unkempt, with a three days’ growth of beard disfiguring his chin, he looked a grimly incongruous object against that peaceful and orderly background.
Lying there in the softly-shaded lamplight, his eyes wandered round the room till they came to rest on a framed photograph which stood in solitary state on top of the writing-desk. It was a portrait of himself at the age of five, a chubby, curly-headed boy in a white sailor suit, clutching a bucket and a spade and seated upon an obviously imitation rock. Although it had been taken nearly twenty-five years ago, he could still vaguely remember the queer smell of the studio and the reassuring face of his mother as she had stood behind the camera smiling at him encouragingly. His lips parted in a bitter smile, and fumbling in his side pocket, he dragged out a crumpled, half-empty packet of cigarettes and looked about him in search of a match.
He had sunk back again against the cushions and was staring up blankly at the thin trail of smoke rising towards the ceiling when Catherine reappeared in the doorway. She was carrying a tray which, in addition to the whisky, contained a leg of cold chicken and several thick slices of bread and butter. She placed it on a small stool at the head of the sofa.
“Sit up, Jim, and eat a little of this. You will feel better after you’ve had some food.”
With an unsteady hand Wilson reached out for the tumbler, and lifting it shakily to his lips, gulped down the greater part of its contents. A long sigh of satisfaction testified to the success of the experiment. His eyes brightened, and rousing himself stiffly, he turned his attention to the tray.
For a while his sister stood beside him watching him in silence. He ate fast, hacking off large chunks and swallowing them greedily, and it was not until the first edge of his hunger showed signs of becoming blunted that she made any
attempt to renew her questions.
“How did you get here?” she asked. “Was it on the motor bicycle that you took from that house on the moor?”
He contented himself with a nod.
“What have you done with it?”
“Shoved it in a pond the other side of the forest. Walked the last five miles, and a hell of a job it was to find the way.” He put down his knife and fork and drained off the remainder of the whisky. “What happened to that chap I bashed over the head? Has there been anything about it in the papers?”
“He’s in the hospital at Okehampton. The doctors think that he’ll probably die.”
“I’m sorry for that. I didn’t mean to kill him. I only wanted to lay him out.”
Catherine’s fingers tightened. “But why did you come here? Don’t you realise how dangerous it is? They know you’re my brother, and—”
“Don’t worry: I shan’t be inflicting myself on you for very long. If you’ll help me I’ll promise to clear out of this by to-morrow night.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go up to Town in the morning and buy me one or two things I’ve got to get hold of. I’ll let you have the money.”
“What sort of things?”
“Clothes. I can’t move a step in this blasted rig-out. Every copper in England has got a description of it by now.”
For a moment Catherine sat staring at him, her wide-open eyes full of doubt and fear. “Yes, I—I could do that, but what use would it be? Where can you go afterwards, and how will you manage to live?”
“That’s my affair.” With an angry scowl Wilson picked up the empty glass. “If you buy the stuff I can look after myself all right. Give me another drink first, and I’ll make you out a list.”
II
Ruth stuck up the envelope which she had been addressing and glanced impatiently at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“I wish Mrs. Higgins would hurry up. She promised to be here by two, and I’d like to see her before I go out.”
Trouble on the Thames Page 16