by Sapper
He opened his door, and gave me the all clear. And a few moments later I strolled into the bar. A little to my surprise, the seafaring man was there, seated in a corner. He was talking earnestly to someone, and as I saw who his companion was, my pulse beat a little quicker. It was our friend of the Mere, the man with the damaged hand. Proof – absolute and definite.
I ordered a pint of ale and sat down near them. And the instant he saw me the sailor leaned across and beckoned me to join them.
“Draw up, mate,” he cried. “You know it’s none o’ my business, but what was your friend’s great idea this afternoon? I’ve just been telling this gentleman about it. Your butterfly pal, I mean, who knew nothing about butterflies.”
“I assure you,” I said a little stiffly, “he’s no friend of mine. He’s the most casual acquaintance. He happened to be lunching late at the same time as I was, and I gathered that he was a Professor Stanton, and an authority on butterflies. And he suggested we should go to Stonehenge together.”
“Can’t understand it,” said the sailor man. “Now, if one of you started to talk to me about seafaring matters, I guess I’d spot in two shakes how much you know about the sea. And what’s the good, anyway, of pretending you know what you don’t know? You look such a blazing fool when you’re found out.”
“I think the explanation is very simple,” I remarked. “It’s merely a peculiar form of conceit. That man probably knows a smattering about butterflies, and for some reason or other likes to pose as an expert. He got it in the neck all right from that little man with the false teeth.”
The sailor slapped his thigh with a blow like a pistol-shot and roared with laughter.
“Got it in the neck! Not half he didn’t. Well, it will teach him a lesson. And butterflies – of all things. Look out – here he is.”
Toby Sinclair came fussing in, and as soon as he saw me he crossed to our table.
“Ah! Mr Seymour,” he said, “our little trip tomorrow must be cancelled, I fear. I have been unexpectedly called back to London, to my annoyance.”
“I am sorry to hear that – er – Professor,” I said a little stiffly.
“Going to catch Opsi – whatever it was – in Trafalgar Square,” chuckled the sailor.
“I quite fail to understand you, sir,” said Toby, drawing himself up. “Well – goodbye.” He turned to me and held out his hand. “I trust you will enjoy the remainder of your holiday.”
He went out into the lounge, and I watched him paying his bill.
“Really an extraordinary case,” I said thoughtfully. “He’s the last man in the world I should have thought would do anything so foolish. Even now I can’t help thinking there must be some explanation. Though I suppose it’s really a very unimportant matter.”
“You never can tell,” said the sailor darkly. “It may be that you’re well clear of him, mate. Blokes don’t masquerade like that unless they’ve got to. And they haven’t got to unless there’s something wrong somewhere.”
“I quite agree,” said the man with the damaged finger, speaking for the first time. “And as I happen to be a member of the police, I think I’ll just keep an eye on the gentleman.”
He finished his drink and left the room, and the sailor whistled under his breath.
“I wonder what the bloke has done,” he said. “Or whether it’s what you said – just a form of conceit. Anyway – have another.”
For a moment or two I sat there undecided. Only too well did I know that the man with the damaged hand was not a member of the police; only too well did I know what he was a member of.
“Thanks,” I said perfunctorily. “The same again, please.”
Should I, too, follow and tell Toby? But if I did, the sailor would in all probability begin to suspect me. He was a member of the gang, too, and it was vital that I should be thought genuine. At the same time, how could I possibly let Sinclair run into some trap? He’d been a fool to come over and speak to me, seeing who I was with. Still, I couldn’t let him down. He must be warned.
“I think, after all, I won’t have another at the moment,” I said. “I shall go out for a bit of a stroll. I’ll go on up and get my hat.”
“Right ho! mate. You might see the Professor getting more butterflies.”
I left the bar and went upstairs to my room. Was I doing the right thing or was I not? After all, nothing much could happen in Amesbury in the middle of the afternoon, and Toby was quite capable of tackling the man with the damaged finger single-handed. If he knew about him – that was the point.
I went down slowly into the lounge, trying to decide. The sailor was still sitting in his corner of the bar: he evidently regarded the rest of the half-section as preferable to a walk.
“A note for you, sir.”
The girl called to me out of the office.
“For me?” I said, staring at her.
She was holding it out, and I glanced at it. It was addressed to F Seymour, and the unfamiliar name almost caught me napping.
“That’s not–” I began, and then I remembered and took it. “Thank you,” I said. “Who left it?”
“I really don’t know, sir,” she said. “I’ve been out of the office for a few minutes and I found it lying here when I got back.”
Who on earth could it be from? No one knew me: and then, of course, I got it. Toby had left it on his way out. I slit open the envelope, and for a moment I stared at the contents uncomprehendingly.
“Do not follow Toby – H D.”
H D Drummond! But where was he? How on earth did he know I had intended to follow Toby? And even as I racked my brains for an answer, a thickset man in plus-fours crossed the lounge and entered the bar. He had a short, clipped beard, flecked with grey, and his hair was thinning a little over the temples.
With an immense feeling of relief I followed him. Thank Heaven! he had arrived on the scene. Naturally I was not going to pretend to know him, but I couldn’t resist throwing him a casual glance as I passed. By the mere fact that I was there he would know that I had carried out his orders, so that it was unnecessary for me to do more. And I had the satisfaction of getting a quick look of approval.
“Changed your mind, mate, after all,” called out the sailor. “However, better late than never, and good beer tastes none the worse for the waiting.”
“It looked so infernally hot in the street,” I said. “And even the chance of seeing our butterfly expert arrested for bigamy wasn’t a sufficient inducement to go out.”
I purposely spoke in a loud voice, so that Drummond should hear.
“Bigamy; that’s good,” chuckled the sailor. “With a face like his, I should think he’d be lucky to get one. Say” – he lowered his voice confidentially – “what do you make of the bloke in the corner? The one with the grouse moor on his face.”
“Nothing much,” I said. “Why? You don’t think he’s another criminal, do you? Seems a perfectly ordinary sort of bird.”
And then it suddenly occurred to me that it would be a good thing to let Drummond know that this man I was talking to was one of the enemy.
“By the way,” I said casually, “seeing that you’re a beer drinker, I suppose you’re a Froth Blower.”
The sailor shook his head.
“I’ve heard of it,” he remarked. “But I ain’t a member. What’s the idea?”
“Well, they’ve got a sort of anthem,” I said, conscious that Drummond was looking in our direction, “by which they recognise one another. It goes something like this.”
“Great Scott!” said the sailor, after I’d finished. “Does it? You’ve got a funny sort of voice, haven’t you, mate? Or is that really the tune?”
“It should under certain circumstances be sung twice,” I remarked. “This is one of them.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said urgently. “I don’t want to be rude, guv’nor, but your voice is one of them things when a little goes a long way. Have another gargle?”
I declined his o
ffer, and a little later I made my way into the lounge. Drummond had left the hotel, and it was fairly obvious that the only interest that the seafaring gentleman could have in me was one of curiosity. Though we had done our best to allay suspicion, Toby Sinclair’s mistake had greatly increased my difficulties. To be associated, however innocently, with a man who has been found out as a fraud is bound to make one conspicuous. And that is exactly what I had no desire to be.
The saving point in the situation up to date had been – though I said it myself – my own acting. And as I sat in the lounge, idly scanning a local paper, I confess I felt a little amused. Drummond’s absolute assurance that we should not recognise him struck me as being distinctly funny. Seldom had I seen a more obvious disguise than the one he had adopted. Of course, I realised that he had definitely given himself away to me by writing the note, but even without that I should have known him anywhere. The beard was so very obviously false. In fact, I made up my mind that when I dropped him a line to tell him exactly what had happened over Toby Sinclair I would warn him about that beard. It looked the sort that might fall off in the soup. And one thing was certain. If any of the enemy who had known him in days gone by – the woman herself, for instance – should chance to see him, he would be spotted for a certainty.
It surprised me, I confess. In one way and another I had heard so much of his resource and daring, that it seemed all the more amazing that he should be so crude. To do him justice, the results he had obtained with Sinclair and myself were extremely good. Why, then, did he fail so dismally over himself? Could it be that he was so self-confident that he had become careless ? Or was it merely that he was relying absolutely on the fact that the other side thought we were dead?
A very strong asset, doubtless – immensely strong – for just so long as they continued to think so. And that was where the great danger of Toby Sinclair’s mistake lay. Supposing they got him and stripped off his disguise. He had been a member of Drummond’s gang all through: he would be recognised at once by the woman. And the instant he was recognised it would be obvious to the meanest capacity that we had not been drowned. If he had escaped, we must all have escaped. And once that fact was known, suspicion would be bound to fall on me, in spite of anything I might do. As for Drummond with his beard, a child would spot him at the other end of the street. Had not the sailor himself been suspicious the instant he saw him? And did it not prove, if further proof was necessary, that up to date I was entirely unsuspected? Otherwise would he have spoken as he did to me?
It certainly gave me a feeling of confidence, but just as certainly it increased my responsibility. As far as I could make out, I was the only person who with any degree of safety could carry on. Sinclair was out of it; and I found myself hoping to Heaven that Drummond would stop out, too. Of course, I knew he wouldn’t, but with his extremely conspicuous appearance he would do far more harm than good. In fact, as I continued to think over it, I began to feel thoroughly irritable. This wasn’t a game of Hunt the Slipper, or Kiss in the Ring. It was a game in which, as we knew to our cost, any false step might prove fatal. And it wasn’t playing fair to any of us to come into the thick of it with an appearance that called to high Heaven – this is a disguise. Toby Sinclair’s mistake had been foolish, perhaps, but that I had managed to rectify by acting promptly. But nothing I could do would rectify Drummond’s. He, once he was seen, was beyond hope.
I crossed to a writing-table: something must be done. He might be our leader and all that, but I failed to see the slightest reason why I should run a considerably increased risk of getting it in the neck.
“Surely,” I began, “it is nothing short of insane to come here with such a blatantly false beard on. The thing shrieks at one. The man who looks like a sailor, and who, as I told you by signal in the bar, is one of them, suspected you at once. I rode him off, of course – but if the woman should see you, you’re done for. We all are. Would it not be wiser, in view especially of Sinclair’s bad mistake this afternoon, for you to leave this thing in my hands for the moment? I am the only one who is unknown to the other side. I obeyed your instructions, and did not go after him when he left the hotel, but are you aware that he was followed by the man whose finger you shot off? What is going to happen if they catch him? Don’t you see that the whole show is up? They will realise at once that none of us were drowned. And what then? Once that occurs, you will forgive my blunt speaking – but you won’t last a minute. You will be spotted immediately. And because of my association with Sinclair they will even suspect me.
“Would it not, therefore, be better if, as I said before, you lay low for a bit? I will keep my eyes open, and find out what I can – notifying you at once of any developments. My principal hope lies in the sailor, and in the man with the damaged hand. The latter we know is one of them: the former I am equally certain is one also. Not, of course, absolutely so: but his whole demeanour at Stonehenge this afternoon was most suspicious. In fact, only the certainty of my perfect disguise prevents me from thinking that he was giving me the next clue. And if he was, it is Stornoway, in the island of Lewis. But of this I am not sure. Why should he waste a clue on an inoffensive bank clerk? Let us hope, at any rate, that I am wrong. Our difficulties in crossing undiscovered to such a sparsely populated locality as the Hebrides will be great.
“Then there is another man, about whom I think Sinclair wrote to you. He resembles apparently a man you killed some years ago called Lakington. We met him in the street here, before starting for Stonehenge; and we again met him at the Friar’s Heel itself. I had a long talk with him first, and found him a most delightful and cultivated individual. In fact, I cannot believe that he is one of the enemy. Then Sinclair joined us, and committed his terrible gaff. He told him he had actually seen a butterfly which, as we subsequently gathered, only lives in Brazil! Now whether this man, who for purposes of reference I will call Lakington, actually spotted this mistake, or whether he didn’t, I cannot say with any degree of certainty. But the point is really immaterial. Because the man who looks like a sailor most certainly did. After Lakington had left us, an odd little man, who obviously knew what he was talking about, though he acted as if he wasn’t all there, told Sinclair to his face that he was an impostor. And the sailor, who was close by, heard. Now do you see the danger we are in? Sinclair is spotted: you, I’m afraid, are spotted also, so that only I am left. And if by any chance they begin to suspect me – which is not likely, but at the same time is a possibility we must reckon with – the coincidence would be too marked to escape their notice. One newcomer in disguise might be anybody: three – one of whom is a big man – tapes us unerringly. We shall have lost the priceless asset of secrecy.
“Wherefore I beg of you lie low. Hide, if necessary, in whatever room you may have taken, and wait for information from me. I am repeating myself, I know, but frankly, my dear fellow, it never even dawned on me that you would appear quite as you are. I venture to think it would almost have been better if you had come as yourself. However, the mischief is done now – and all that we can try to do is to rectify it.
“You may rely implicitly on me; but please do not make my task any harder than it is already.”
I read through what I had written. Strong, perhaps – but not one whit too strong. He must be made to understand the enormity of his offence. And if he didn’t: if he persisted in going about the place as he was, I should have to consider very seriously whether or not I would throw the thing up. Where would they have been without me up to date? I had more than half-solved the first clue: I had completely solved the second: and, through old Jenkinson, I had given them the answer to the third. Which entitled me to express my opinion pretty tersely. And if Drummond didn’t like it, he could damned well lump it.
I addressed an envelope to John Bright, and called for a stamp. And it was while I was waiting for it to be brought that a trick of memory brought to my mind an incident in some detective story I had read years ago. A man had given himself away by leavi
ng behind him a piece of blotting-paper, which he had just used. And the blotting-paper, when held up to a looking-glass, revealed exactly what he had written.
Just one of those little things, I reflected, where brain counts. One of those small details where the blundering type of fellow is apt to get caught. So I took the blotting-paper, tore it into small pieces, and dropped them in the paper-basket.
“Bit extravagant, aren’t you, mate?”
With a feeling of annoyance, I turned round in my chair. Standing by the door of the bar was the sailor, and with him was the man with the damaged hand. And they were both staring at me.
For a moment I was tempted to ask him angrily what the devil it had to do with him, but I instantly suppressed the impulse. After all, it was a very harmless remark – one, moreover, which I was quick enough to see gave me an excellent opportunity of consolidating my position.
“A habit we clerks get into in a bank,” I said. “Clean blotting-paper always after finishing a job.”
“Is that so?” he remarked. “What a good idea.”
I rose and crossed to the front door – I had no wish to post the letter in the hotel. And it was as I was actually stepping on to the pavement that a sudden awful thought struck me. Supposing they suspected me – just supposing – what was to prevent them, as soon as I was gone, from getting the torn-up pieces out of the basket and fitting them together.
At all costs I must prevent that, and the question was how. The sailor was still by the door, though the other man had disappeared. There was only one thing to be done: get back to the table, write another letter, and in some way or other retrieve those incriminating pieces.
I wrote another letter, and still he stood there. But at last he went, and I made a dive for the basket. The bits were all together, but mixed up to a certain extent with old cigarette ends and two used pipe-cleaners. However, there was no time to worry over trifles: it was imperative that I should get that blotting-paper. I grabbed the lot, including the pipe-cleaners, and some soft, wet object, and crammed everything into my pocket. Then, breathing freely, I once more stood up, only to see that confounded sailor pop out again like a jack-in-the-box from the bar.