Lacey considered the matter. He knew exactly where the Court of Appeal stood. There was a long passage, from the point where Gordon had broken out to the Main Hall, and the Main Hall itself was over eighty yards long. Besides which, once in the Main Hall, a fugitive wouldn’t want to attract attention to himself by running.
“I think you’re right,” he said. “He’s in the building.”
He was right. Harry was still inside the building.
Seeing the officials spring into action at the main doors when the alarm sounded, he had veered off, up a spiral stairway which led off halfway down the left hand side of the hall.
This took him up to the third floor, where he came out into a long, gloomy, but deserted passage. From two storeys below, muffled by the thick walls and floors, the sounds of alarm and pursuit came faintly up.
The passage seemed to be occupied by offices. Harry walked along, slowly. His heart was beating at an alarming rate and he thought, once, that he might be going to pass out. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself, and then moved on.
At the end of the passage was another stairway, leading down, broader than the one he had come up. At the foot of this, voices were shouting orders. The alarm bell had stopped.
Beyond the stairhead, the passage ran on into a dead-end, serving only one room. It must, he thought, be a turret room. If by any chance it was unoccupied he might be able to hide himself away in it. It would, at least, offer a respite.
A notice, painted on the wall outside the door, said dead files. Harry turned the handle and walked in.
It was an octagonal room, almost full of filing cabinets and cupboards. At a desk in the middle, almost overborne by the forest of surrounding furniture, sat a tall, thin, untidy-looking man with grey hair and thick-lensed glasses.
He looked enquiringly at Harry. Harry, whose mind was on what was happening outside, could think of nothing to say.
There was no doubt about it. There were several sets of feet coming up the stairs, and they sounded heavy.
The thin man rose from his desk, took a couple of steps towards Harry, as if bringing him into focus, and said urgently, “You must be Harry Gordon. I gather that your appeal was unsuccessful.”
“I didn’t wait to see,” said Harry. His mouth was dry, and he could hardly get the words out.
“I suggest you get into that cabinet,” said the man. “It’s only got my coat in it. And I suggest you get into it pretty damn quickly.” It was a long, thin cupboard made of very inferior wood. The door failed to fit by nearly half an inch at the top, and Harry could not only hear, he could see everything that happened. There was a knock, the grey-haired man said, “Come in,” in a commendably steady voice, and a police constable entered, followed by a court attendant.
The attendant said, “Oh, Mr. Harbord, there’s a man escaped from the L.G.J.’s court. We think he’s somewhere in the building.”
“I hope he’s not dangerous,” said Mr. Harbord.
“It’s Gordon – appeal for capital murder.”
“I remember it. Killed a young woman.”
The constable said impatiently, “I take it, sir, you’ve been in here some little time.”
“All morning,” said Mr. Harbord.
“Then if you wouldn’t mind letting us know if you see anyone – you’ll recognise him. He’s got a beard.”
“If I see anyone with a beard who looks like a murderer,” said Mr. Harbord, “I’ll shout so loud they’ll hear it in the Bear Garden.”
The end part of the sentence was said to himself, for the deputation had departed. As soon as the noise of their footsteps had died away Mr. Harbord came across and opened the cupboard door.
“All right for the moment,” he said.
“I think,” said Harry indistinctly, “bit dizzy. May be going to pass out.”
“Hold up,” said Mr. Harbord. “We’ll find you something better than that.”
He got an arm under Harry’s shoulders, and half carried him across into the far corner of the room. Here stood a mountainous stack of files. “Have to shift them out a bit. Squat there. Get your head down between your legs.”
Five minutes later Harry was under cover. His back was propped against the angle of the wall; he was sitting on a folded garment of thick black silk which Mr. Harbord had produced from a cupboard labelled Obsolete Forms and to his right and in front of him rose a protective rampart, five feet high, of what he assumed to be Dead Files. His head stopped swimming and he was reasonably comfortable.
Mr. Harbord did not seem to have a great many visitors. At one o’clock he departed, locking his door, returning an hour later with a paper bag containing a slice of veal and ham pie, three tomatoes, a packet of potato crisps, and a can of beer which he punctured with a paper knife.
“Rough tack,” he said, handing it down to Harry, “but it’ll keep the wolf from the door.”
“I’ve no complaints,” said Harry. He ate every scrap of the food, taking care not to scatter the crumbs about, and finished the can of beer. His appetite had returned.
At about three o’clock the policeman came back. He was alone this time and in less of a hurry.
“Odd sort of set-up you’ve got here,” he observed.
“In what way?” enquired Mr. Harbord politely.
“Ruddy great place, like a castle. Never seen so many passages. Staircases inside one another. Wonder people don’t get lost.”
“Oh, they do,” said Mr. Harbord. “Only the other day the Queen’s Bench No. 9 was sitting late, an old lady went to sleep in the public gallery – came out in the dark – wandered for hours. One of the night porters heard her screaming.”
“Spooky sort of place,” agreed the constable. “I’ll be getting on.”
“Have you caught your man?”
“If you ask me,” said the constable, “he isn’t in the building at all. Got out before they shut the doors. Never mind. He won’t get far, I promise you.”
“I’m sure I hope not,” said Mr. Harbord.
Harry found that he was able to listen to all this with detachment. The bulwark of Dead Files gave him a sense of absolute security.
In the latter part of the afternoon he dozed, waking with a start to Mr. Harbord gazing down at him.
“It’s half past five,” said Mr. Harbord. “In a quarter of an hour I shall be off.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Harry. “Give me five minutes start then follow me out.”
“Out?” said Mr. Harbord. “Don’t be silly. You’ll be picked up before you get past the door.” Harry stared at him. “There’s only one place in England they won’t be looking for you tonight and that’s right here.”
“But—”
“There’ll be a cleaner along between six and seven. She’ll be no trouble. Indeed, judging from the amount of cleaning she does, she won’t be here more than five minutes. After that your bedroom is entirely at your disposal. There’s a washbasin – cold water I’m afraid – and a lavatory along the corridor on the left. I’ve got hold of those—” he indicated a pair of dusty dark green baize curtains. “Out of Master Sterngold’s room – he’s on vacation. They’re a bit dusty but they’ll keep you nice and warm. Tomorrow we’ll think about your future. I’ve got some ideas about that which I’d like to put to you.”
Harry said, “Look. So far I haven’t dared to ask. But I’ve got to know. Why are you doing it?”
“The trouble is,” said Mr. Harbord, “I’m not sure just at this moment that I’m allowed to tell you anything at all. That’s one of the things I’m going to find out tonight. For the moment you’ll have to take me on trust.”
“All right,” said Harry, “I’ll do that.”
“Sleep well.”
When the cleaner had come and gone Harry made up his bed as best he could in the dark and stood for a few moments in the doorway listening to the Royal Courts of Justice composing itself for the night.
Doors were slammed shut, footsteps
rattled down stone corridors, bells rang, lifts whined. Gradually, the intervals between such sounds grew longer and longer. Later still he heard the dull thud of heavy doors coming together – safety doors somewhere down in the vaults. Then silence.
It was a silence broken by a multitude of small noises unheard by day. There was a tapping, which he traced to a loose cable in the old-fashioned lift housing. Boards and door frames creaked. Hot water pipes gurgled. As he stood looking down into the darkness of the stairwell, a piece of stone detached itself from the roof above him and landed with a tiny clear tinkle on the tiles three floors below.
The whole building was settling down like a man to sleep. Harry retired to his own narrow couch. The curtains, as Mr. Harbord had said, were dusty, but they were warm. From the Strand, the Court clock boomed out the hours, echoed more faintly by St. Clements Dane and St. Bride’s Fleet Street. In a surprisingly short space of time, Harry was fast asleep . . .
Superintendent Lacey got no sleep that night. He sat in the room that had been assigned to him at Scotland Yard. In front of him was the blue-covered file which contained Harry Gordon’s private particulars. It was an astonishingly comprehensive dossier. It contained details of his private address, of his club, of every hotel he was known to have stayed at; the addresses of his relatives, friends and acquaintances; his solicitors, accountants, bankers and other professional contacts; of every place to which he might resort for help, for money, for advice, or for somewhere to lay his head. And to all of those places patient men were directed with instructions to enquire and observe. A description and a warning went to all hotels and boarding houses in the metropolis. Railways, coach stations and air terminals were alerted. A special call went out to port and customs authorities, ticket offices and travel agencies.
“There’s one advantage of living on an island,” said Superintendent Lacey to Sergeant Knight. “It’s damnably difficult to get out of. Do you realise that in two world wars only one prisoner has succeeded in doing it?”
“Supposing he doesn’t try to escape?”
“If he leaves London we’ll pick him up before morning. If he keeps his head and lies low in London it may take longer. May be twenty-four hours. Maybe forty-eight. He’s not a professional crook. He’s got no contacts.”
“I hope you’re right, sir,” said Sergeant Knight. It was three o’clock in the morning and not the best time for optimism. Outside it started to rain.
At half past eight next day Mr. Harbord entered his room. There were lines of strain on his face but his voice sounded reassuringly level. “I hope you slept well,” he said. He didn’t look as if he had slept too well himself.
“Wonderfully,” said Harry.
“This next bit is going to be a bit tricky. We’ve got to get you out. I can’t see any way round this. We’ve got to take a chance.”
“Look,” said Harry, “before we start. I’ve cleared up all the mess behind there, there’s nothing to associate me with this room. If we hit trouble I’m going to run for it, and you’re not to get involved.”
“Then let’s hope we don’t hit trouble,” said Mr. Harbord. “Follow a few yards behind me and don’t hurry.”
He led the way along the corridor and down a spiral staircase into the basement. Twice when people approached, Mr. Harbord managed to switch his course into a side passage before any encounter could take place. The basement was a labyrinth without logic or symmetry. Harry soon lost all sense of direction.
“Close up now,” said Mr. Harbord. Ahead of them was a small door at the top of half a dozen steps. “It’s neck or nothing now.”
He opened the door. They were in a back yard filled with coke. There was no one in sight. They crossed the yard, climbed a few more steps, and found themselves in a passageway. At the end of it was a main road, across which they dived into another passageway. At one end of it was a short alley full of small shops. “In here,” said Mr. Harbord.
It was a barber’s shop. The blinds were down and it appeared to be closed, but Mr. Harbord turned the handle confidently and the door opened. There were three chairs, all empty. A large man with black hair and a flat, white face was standing beside the end one. “Is this the job?” he said.
“This is the job,” said Mr. Harbord. “Tom Cox, Harry Gordon.”
“Pleased to meet you, Harry,” said Mr. Cox. “Hop in that chair.” And to Mr. Harbord, “He’s all right for height. Bit narrower in the shoulders than I’d been led to expect.”
“You can pad them.”
“I’ll fix them, don’t you fuss.”
“I’ll see you in about an hour’s time, then,” said Mr. Harbord to Harry.
When he had gone, Tom locked the door.
“Don’t open up till half past nine. Should give us time. We’ll have that beaver off, for a start. Then give you a nice, close shave. Trim the hair up short. Suntan lotion all over. A military man on leave. That’s how I see you.”
While Mr. Cox talked, his nimble white fingers were moving.
First he snipped away the trim black beard which had been Harry’s pride, and his protest against conformity, for the past three years. Then he shaved him and started on his hair, cutting the sides back, thinning out the top and moving Harry’s parting a couple of inches to the left. After that, he got out a bottle which smelled of resin, and dabbed the contents on to the newly bared areas of Harry’s face.
“It’ll sting you up a bit,” said Tom, “but don’t worry. You’ve no idea how smart it makes you look. All handsome men are slightly bronzed this season. While we’re waiting for it to dry off, we’ll get you togged out.”
He opened a cupboard in which a number of suits were arranged on hangers. They were none of them new, but they looked as if they had come from a good tailor. After a critical scrutiny, Mr. Cox selected one of decent, dark grey flannel with a very faint chalk stripe.
“It’ll fit you where it touches,” he said. “I only got the word late last night, or I’d have found you some more to choose from.”
In fact, it was quite a good fit. The coat was the right length, but too ample in the waist. Mr. Cox got out a needle and thread and ran a few stitches into the lining.
“It’ll do for today. Get you something a bit better tomorrow. Goes quite well with your brown shoes, which is a bit of luck because shoes mightn’t have been so easy. Have to change the tie.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“A bit Chelsea for the character we had in mind. I got an M.G.C. one for you. Lovely colour – but too risky. Unless you happen to be a member.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Harry. He settled for a Royal Artillery tie and wandered across to the looking-glass to tie it.
“Good lord!” he said.
“It’s the haircut that makes the difference,” said Tom. “You’d be surprised. I had a youngster in here the other day. Regular young tearaway. Bow-wave, sideboards, D.A. and all. Wanted a job in a solicitor’s office. When I’d finished with him, he might have come straight out of the celestial choir. Got the job, too. You’d better pop out and get breakfast, now. I’ve got to open up.”
Three-quarters of an hour later, fortified by an excellent breakfast, Harry reported back to Dead Files.
Mr. Harbord examined him critically.
“Not bad,” he said. “An inch of white handkerchief in the top pocket, and a briefcase.”
“Why the briefcase?”
“Most people here carry briefcases,” said Mr. Harbord. “You can borrow this one for the time being. Now, let me think. You’re a regular soldier, but you’re thinking of leaving the army and taking up the law. A surprising number of them do that. You’ve decided to listen to a few cases in Court. When the Courts shut down at four o’clock, go out and have a good high tea, and come back here as near to half past five as you can make it.”
“I’ll do that,” said Harry, “but on one condition.”
Mr. Harbord looked faintly surprised. “Condition?”
“T
hat you tell me why you, and Tom Cox, and other friends of yours, too, I gather, are breaking the law, taking fantastic risks, for a complete stranger.”
Mr. Harbord considered the matter. “All right,” he said. “I’ve got permission to tell you a certain amount. Now’s as good a time as any. If someone comes in you can be enquiring for a file.”
“My aunt,” said Harry, “was engaged in litigation twenty years ago. Her name was Smith.” He sat down on the chair beside Mr. Harbord’s desk and waited.
“The fact of the matter is,” said Mr. Harbord at last, “that you’re the King’s horse.”
“I’m what?”
“The King’s horse in the Derby. Do you remember Emily Davison? She threw herself in front of the King’s horse in the 1913 Derby, and was killed. That was the moment when people started to take the suffragettes seriously.”
“I think I begin to see,” said Harry.
“We’re all members of a society which has no name, no rules, no officers, and no subscription. And it has only got one object. The abolition of capital punishment. There are a number of reputable and well-known bodies who are campaigning for the same object. We have no connection with any of them. We are unknown, and disreputable. And the difference between us and what I might call the official bodies is a very simple one. We are prepared to break the law. They are not.”
Harry said, “It’s quite an important distinction, isn’t it?”
“It’s a vital distinction. No one has ever forced the Government to change its mind without resorting to violence and illegality. Unofficial strikes, public nuisance, assault, boycotting, terrorism.”
Harry was fascinated by the gentle but inflexible obstinacy in the face opposite him. Just so, he thought, might an early Christian have looked in the days when Christianity was itself a crime against the State.
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