“Here, damn it, you’re a cool one! What about me? Do I walk? Five miles. I like that.”
“No, you fat ass. You taxi. I’ll pay up. Lend me your car, Fatty. If you do, I’ll take you behind at the ‘Duchess of Kent’s’ and introduce you to Mae Milson any night next week.”
“Said he seductively. What’s your scoop, Ugly? Tell Fatty and he’ll chauffeur you himself.”
“Won’t do, old chap. This isn’t a joke. It’s dead serious. I’m on the warpath, Fatty. The jolly old ed’s sitting on the phone at the other end and it’s going to make or break me.”
“Then why didn’t you order a fleet of cars?” inquired Jack Gleeson—the Fatty of fifth form days at Sherrow. “What’s the use of being a big noise in Fleet Street…”
“Don’t make puns, you mutt. I caught this train by the split skin of a stopped tooth, and the powers that be don’t know where I am except that I’m going there fast. Damn it, Fatty, are you an answer to prayer or are you a plater, and do you want to meet Mae Milson or don’t you?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” replied Gleeson, with a grin which lit up his square face. “I’ve been in uncle’s office all day and I’m going home to eat the old man’s birthday dinner and be lectured on wild living. Next Monday evening, old Ugly—and supper at the Savoy for four, what?”
“I’ll work it, if you’ll let me have that car, cross my thumbs and spit on ’em. You bung out of the station, fat face, and have your engine running and buzz off at the word go. I wouldn’t ask it if it weren’t needful. Honest to God, Fatty, I need that car.”
“All right, Ugly. I’ll oblige. I’m the world’s best at helping a pal in a tight place. You can have my bus, my own ewe lamb, bought with the hard-earned savings of virtuous living, but I don’t see why you should be so damn close over the story, old lockjaw. I won’t split. What’s the scoop?”
“Alleged mutiny at Blagden Aerodrome,” said Vernon, uttering the first wild notion which came into his head, “and look here, Fatty, if you split on that, I’m done for, ruined, fallen, discredited, and hanged at dawn. It’s not funny. If you breathe a word you’ll be had up for sedition. I don’t know anything. It’s only a rumour.”
Gleeson opened his eyes in a round-faced stare.
“Reds?” he whispered, fiercely yet hopefully.
Vernon, knowing that Fatty was of the true-blue die-hard-rule Britannia type nodded portentously, though he shook with inward giggles.
“Reds,” he whispered in reply. “Mum’s the word, Fatty. O.K. about the car?”
“O.K. old chap,” replied Fatty promptly. “I’ll have her purring for you.”
“Good man! Now bung off and don’t take any notice of me when we get out at Reading. I’ve got an idea there’s a bloke watching me, and I may have to make myself scarce. See you in the station yard, old sergeant-major!”
Fatty walked off obediently along the corridor, and Vernon returned to his place hoping that his plump and patriotic pal would not drive over to Blagden in the hope of quelling a non-existent mutiny among His Majesty’s most loyal forces.
“Poor old fat face,” said Vernon to himself. “He always swallowed the can with the bait. Still, it’s a spot of excitement after a day of tea broking or whatever it is he brokes.”
Arrived at Reading, Vernon with his hat pulled well over his face mingled in the crowd on the platform until he picked out Strafford’s tall figure in a less crowded section opposite the first-class coaches. Edging nearer to his suspect, Vernon had a shock of consternation. Strafford had just raised his hat to some one on the platform, and that some one was a girl whom Peter Vernon was able to recognise—Valerie Woodstock. Later Vernon had time to analyse the queer feeling which came over him at the sight of the girl’s fair face upturned questioningly to Strafford’s dark one. Vernon was keen enough to play the detective when it was a matter of trailing a man, but to do the same thing where a woman was concerned went against the grain. His feeling of uncertainty, however, did not last long. Valerie Woodstock had been at Coombe’s party, and might have been involved in the Gardien business, he reminded himself. In any case, Strafford’s attitude towards her now betokened something much more than an ordinary casual meeting on a railway platform. The crowd which had descended from the train was seeping away through the barriers, but the pair whom Vernon was following walked very slowly, their heads bent, their voices dropped almost to whispers, so that while it was evident that they were deep in some important discussion, not a word they spoke was audible to any, save one another. So slowly did they move that Vernon was constrained to linger by the bookstall to avoid overtaking them, and as he watched their close converse, curiosity got the better of every other feeling in the journalist’s make up. That intent, cautious discussion indicated something both suspicious and suspecting; they were intent and they were afraid—so it seemed to Vernon’s shrewd mind as he watched their slow reluctant footsteps towards the barrier.
Once Strafford and his companion were outside the station, Vernon made hasty search for Fatty and his sports model. They were not hard to find. The yellow M.G. with its chromium fittings stood out among the sober taxis and vans like some exotic flower in a back yard.
“Cripes!” thought Vernon. “Some bus for a bit of quiet sleuthing. You could see it ten miles away in a London fog.”
“Fatty” Gleeson had been as good as his word. He had the engine running, and got out of his place in the driver’s seat without a word of prompting. Vernon, glancing round, saw Strafford standing by a discreet Morris “Eight,” a little closer to the exit than the M.G. Everybody who knew this station probably knew Gleeson’s M.G. by sight; he turned to its owner.
“Bung your hat in the bus, Fatty, and take mine, there’s a good chap,” hissed Vernon. Gleeson did as he was bid without a murmur.
“Take care of yourself, old chap,” he whispered, and Vernon slid into the driver’s seat and clapped Fatty’s expensive green felt on to his own head, saying to himself as he let in the clutch, “Hypnotic effect of the word ‘Reds’ on a die-hard! In the old days you’d have said you were out to save a maiden’s honour. Now you mutter ‘Reds’ and the effect’s the same. Oh, cheer oh! the lass is left to foot it and the gent takes the car. So far, so good. Keep behind and hope for the best.”
Valerie Woodstock had set off on foot, and the blue Morris “eight,” with Strafford alone on board, was sliding slowly forward among the traffic. Vernon, a first-rate driver, settled comfortably back in the low driving seat of his luxurious little car and chuckled to himself as he followed Strafford. “Talk about a fool chasing a fool,” he mused. “I’ve done a few dotty things in this peculiar life, but this is about the dottiest. I don’t know where the chap’s going and I don’t care, but I’m damn well going too!”
Following an inconspicuous car in the crowded streets of a busy town takes all the driver’s attention. Vernon did not know Reading and he had no time to try to get his bearings. He soon became pretty certain that Strafford knew he was being tailed and that he was doing his best to lose his follower. He drove round the town, dodging in and out of small streets, turning suddenly here and there and performing erratic feats of steering among heavy traffic. At the end of ten minutes Vernon knew several things. First, that Strafford was a good driver, but that he himself was a better. Second, that Strafford knew he was being followed and that it was therefore useless to tail him. Third, that out of sheer obstinacy, he, Peter Vernon was going to hold on and see where the other driver made for.
A moment after he had made this admittedly unintelligent resolution, Vernon had a bit of bad luck. The Morris slewed round a right-hand bend unexpectedly and a small Austin van overtook Vernon just as he was about to follow. The journalist managed to avoid a smash, but he stalled his engine and his way was blocked. By the time the driver of the van had ceased his objurgations and cleared out of the way, the Morris had ceased to be, so far as possible observation was concerned.
“Take you down a peg or two, y
ou fat ass,” groaned Peter Vernon to himself. “Now you’d better take Fatty’s car home and borrow some money for your ticket back. Sleuths in fiction are never broke. I always am. Damn all! Hi! where’s the Petherington Road, Charlie?”
The errand boy thus addressed gave directions which involved too many ‘firsts on your right and thirds on your left’ for Vernon to follow, but with a general sense of direction culled from the complicated instructions he turned down a narrow suburban road and was rewarded shortly by the sign of that gallant gentleman “Major Road ahead.” Slowing up in orthodox manner at the junction he nearly let out a whoop when he saw a small green car with black mudguards shoot by.
“It’s himself, or I’m a Chinaman, and he didn’t see me!” he chortled to himself. “No lights on this road, no speed limit, and if I can’t catch him I’ll eat Fatty’s hat.”
The long straight stretch of road ahead was ideal for a chase. The M.G. was new, and in tip-top order, and Vernon began to enjoy himself. He was soon near enough to read the registration number ahead and to realise that his luck was in. It was Strafford’s Morris all right, on a road with enough traffic to make the following car not too conspicuous, and Strafford was travelling at what Vernon would have described as “a very conservative rate.” They proceeded thus for just over six miles, and then the Morris turned off the main road (direction quite unknown to Vernon) and took a narrow road whose surface betokened “B” road but none so dusty to Vernon’s experienced mind. He followed carefully, took another turn into a road which should not have been classified as a road at all in his opinion, and bumped slowly on, for the car ahead seemed in no sort of hurry Vernon realised at once when the Morris stopped. He was near enough to see the driver get out, and he himself drove on past the Morris and pulled up to consider. There was a building of sorts behind a gate by the roadside; no lights showed, only the dark hulk of a gable against the sky.
Switching off his headlights and stopping the engine, Vernon sat very still and listened intently, thinking hard. He had followed Strafford on impulse in the first place, obeying the “news-finding” hunch which had often enabled him to get ahead of his fellow news hunters on other occasions. Later, obstinacy and coincidence had caused him to carry on with a chase which reason condemned as futile. Now he had to choose between the dictates of common sense which said, “Go home. You’re asking for trouble,” and the dictates of an adventurous mind which said “Find out what the chap’s up to. There’s some funny business going on, and you’ll kick yourself if you don’t follow it up.”
The instinct for news finally got the better of cautious common sense, and Vernon got out of his borrowed car and walked softly back to the gate by the roadside. There was a full moon behind the cloud drift which covered the sky, and Vernon’s keen eyes were able to make out the lines of the open gate and a shape beyond which might have been a garage door. The journalist crept past the gate, and stood on the rough grass behind the farther side of the hedge. His senses tingled as he heard a low voice say:
“Give it to me, you damned fool. What do you think I’ve come for. Gardien’s…”
The words broke off in a groan and there was a sound of something falling and another groan. Caution fled from Vernon’s mind. He had to find out what was happening behind that half-open door. Creeping forward, he reached the dark aperture. Some one’s arms came round his knees from behind, and he was jerked forward off his feet and flung headlong into the darkness. As he measured his length on a pile of hay he heard the door slammed to behind him.
Sitting up, in complete darkness, cursing bitterly, Vernon realised that he had been outwitted by an opponent who had led him by the nose. His flash-lamp showed him that the barn in which he found himself was empty of any occupant save himself, and the sound of an engine outside told him that the chap who had collared him was driving off to pursue his business in peace.
“And that’s that—damn all,” said Vernon to himself. “But one thing I do know: Strafford’s up to something that won’t stand watching, and the Woodstock’s in with him. If I’m a fat fool, he’s another. If he hadn’t been so anxious to get away without letting me see him, I should never have come loping after him. What hopes about this door?”
At first the prospects of escape from durance vile looked none too good. With the assistance of his torch and a good deal of fumbling, Vernon found that the solid double doors of the barn were fastened on the outside with a bar and staple. A vigorous attack with his boots proved quite futile, but a further reconnaissance with the torch showed that the doors had some inches of clearance at the top. Finding a stout wooden “spud” in a corner to assist his labours, Vernon managed to lever one door upwards and to lift it off its hinges, so that at last it fell outwards with himself on top of it, leaving him free with grazed fingers, a barked shin and a flattened nose.
“Serve you right, you sanguinary ass,” he growled to himself. “See anti-climax in the dictionary and look for the county asylum, lunatics, certification of… Thank Gawd he’s left me Fatty’s bus. More than I expected.”
Starting up the amiable M.G. again, Vernon drove on. The road was too narrow to turn, and in his embittered state it seemed to make very little difference where he drove or how long it took to drive there. But Peter Vernon was not the type to remain morose or deflated for very long, and as he bumped over the execrable road his nimble mind soon began to make plans. He would not admit defeat and go back to London. Rather than that, he would spend the night in Fatty’s car and do a little research into the matter of Strafford’s movements the next day. “Market Wraden, that’s where the chap hangs out, or his people hang out,” said Vernon to himself. “I’ll roll along there and get a snack at a pub if I pass one. Not closing time yet by a long way. While there’s life there’s hope. Why didn’t I touch Fatty for a fiver?”
As Vernon expected, his byway ran eventually into a “road which looked like a road,” and he turned left with the intention of regaining the route whereby he had left Reading. He had only travelled half a mile from the turn when he saw a car standing by the hedge, or, as he expressed it, “leaning against the hedge, blotto, blah, ditched,” and as he slowed up to investigate, a very tall man came and stood in the light of the headlamps and signalled energetically. Vernon pulled up, ennui, heart-searchings and self-recriminations vanishing like frost in a sunbeam, for the signaller, clearly illumined by Fatty’s superior headlamps, was “the coupla yards of intellectual” who had attended the inquests on Gardien and Elliott—Ashton Vale. Descending joyously from the M.G., muttering, “Thick and fast they came at last,” Vernon made his best bow.
“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” he said politely.
Vale stared at the journalist—as well he might. Vernon had been pitched headfirst into a heap of loose hay, remnants of which stood up jauntily in his longish fair hair and adhered to a dark-blue overcoat which was plentifully powdered with dry limewash. His nose was grazed by its contact with the barn door, and a smudge of mud down one cheek added to the picturesqueness of his appearance. The battered appearance of the young man, plus the immaculateness of the shining M.G. which he had been driving, was too much for Vale’s gravity.
“Mr. Stanley?” he replied, and then began to laugh as he recognised in Vernon the journalist whom he had noted twice already that day. Seeing Vale laugh, Vernon’s gravity broke down, and the two stood in the light of the headlamps and shouted with mirth.
Vernon was the first to recover. “I say, what label did they pin on Macdonald at Coombe’s little party?” he asked, apropos of nothing, and Vale replied:
“Izaak Walton. Not bad. Who are you, by the way?”
“Name of Vernon—Morning Star—collecting copy. You’re Ashton Vale. Who put you in the ditch?”
Vale turned his eyes on the inebriated-looking Rover at the roadside. “I ditched myself, to avoid some young fool in a blinding hurry who thought the whole road was his own—and then some.”
“Ha! That’s my party, I’ll sw
ear,” said Vernon. Green-and-black Morris Eight, registration AXX9395?”
“Morris of sorts, no time to acquire specific details,” replied Vale. “I think my back axle’s in a poor way, and it’ll take a crane to lift her out of the ditch,” he went on, looking sadly at the Rover, “so if you could give me a lift in your search for copy, I should be infinitely obliged.”
“Delighted,” said Vernon. “Where do you want to go? Anywhere in the vicinity of Market Wraden?”
“Look here, what do you know about all this?” inquired Vale. “I was intending to go to Market Wraden, as it happens.”
“That’ll suit me,” said Vernon politely. “Do you know how to get there?”
“I thought I did, but I must have missed my road,” said Vale. “Damn it, this is a crazy business. What?…”
“Now you listen to me, sir,” said Vernon, who had taken one of his sudden decisions. “You think all this looks dashed queer, and you think I’m one over the eight, don’t you? Well, I’m not. I’m a journalist, as you know. I took the train to Reading all in a rush, so to speak, following a chappie who might mean news. I met a pal in the train who lent me his car—a very snappy article, as you see. I followed that chappie round in circles, and all I got for my pains was a sojourn in a barn, where I was pitched headfirst by superior strategy. I got out of the barn after chappie had melted away. I’ve got about five and sixpence on me, half a book of stamps and an empty packet of Gold Flake. I’ll drive you where you like and swap yarns if you like, for the loan of a fiver. What about it? You can’t sleuth on tuppence. It cramps your style.”
“Let’s get in,” said Vale, waving a hand towards the shining M.G. “It looks a nice little bus, and I’m tired of this bit of road. There’s a pub near Bishop’s Wraden kept by a friend of mine. I expect he can put you up, too, if you want a bed, and I’ll go bail for you for to-night. If I lend you a fiver I shall be broke myself; but we might get a cheque changed in the morning. D’you drive this contraption, or do I?”
These Names Make Clues Page 18