What might have been either a curse or a sob broke from the meagre man. He stumbled – lifting a knee queerly, as if he had made a wholly futile attempt to run.
‘Here you are. Hot coffee, and a sandwich if you want it.’ And Appleby steered his captive – if he was that – to a table in the small café he had had in mind. ‘Your head will feel clearer, you know, when you’ve had that.’
He fetched coffee from the counter, glancing about him as he did so. There was nobody in the place except a sleepy woman presiding over the stuff stewing in urns, and a man and a girl in a corner, staring at each other in heavy-eyed misery. It was not very cheerful. But Appleby doubted whether a more festive atmosphere would much have encouraged his new acquaintance.
‘Here you are. Sugar in the saucer.’
The meagre man took the coffee in two trembling hands, stirred, and drank. A couple of mouthfuls appeared to give him sufficient strength to take up matters where he had left them. ‘I never had anything to do with the police,’ he said. ‘They’ve no call to come after me.’
‘They haven’t – not so far as I know.’ Appleby put down his pipe and produced a packet of cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’
The meagre man reached forward and took a cigarette as an addict might snatch an offered drug. ‘Thanks,’ he said. It was a word the enunciation of which appeared to afford him peculiar difficulty.
Appleby faintly smiled. With this customer he was on familiar ground enough. A little twister who could put up a genteel show among the simple, and get away with a pound note on the strength of one plausible tale or another. Appleby had often seen them, and often seen them scared – of six months, or two years, or perhaps a thrashing from some dupe’s brawny husband. But he had never seen one as hard-pressed as this. Stuart’s rabbit with the scratched cheek had been out in deep water. And he didn’t like the feel of it.
‘No,’ said Appleby, ‘I don’t suppose the police have any call to come after you. But perhaps you have a call to go after them.’
The meagre man looked up quickly. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.
‘I rather think you do. The only way out of some tough spots is through the police station. It’s a bit bleak. But it’s as safe as Buckingham Palace.’ Appleby paused. ‘Even,’ he said, ‘if they keep you for rather a long time. Safety. Quiet and safety and all found…Safety…safety.’
The meagre man’s head was nodding. ‘You’re a devil,’ he whispered, ‘a clever devil.’ With an effort he looked straight at Appleby, raised his cup and drained it, let it clatter back into the saucer. ‘See here,’ he said – and his voice strove again for truculence. ‘What sort of policeman are you, anyway? You don’t sound to me like a policeman. Too much the bloody gentleman, you are. A bloody gentleman up to something dirty – that’s you. Well, don’t come to me.’
‘Shall I get you another cup of coffee?’
The meagre man shook his head. His eyes were filling with tears of helplessness and rage. ‘Policeman, indeed!’ he pursued. ‘How’d you like to come to the mucking station and see what they say? Oxford cop, eh?’
‘Not Oxford. London.’
With the effect of some tiny mechanism starting into motion, one of the meagre man’s cheeks began to twitch. ‘You mean you’re from the CID?’
‘One of my duties is to look after the CID.’
‘Christ!’ The meagre man looked at Appleby for a moment with all the sobriety of conviction. Then – totally unexpectedly – he smiled. It was not a very pleasant smile, but neither was it malignant. It was a smile, Appleby knew, of suddenly gratified vanity. The little twister endeavoured to square his shoulders in their cheap padded jacket. Then he leant forward. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll tell you something to surprise your ruddy highness. I’ll be bigger than you one day…bigger by a long way. I’ll give your CID its orders – see? Yes, and the ruddy Government too.’
Coffee, fatigue and a little applied psychology, Appleby reflected, will sometimes do the work of large charges of alcohol. ‘Well, why not?’ he said. ‘A man can always have a bit of luck.’
‘You need more than luck. You need guts.’
‘Ah – to grab what’s there for the grabbing.’
‘What d’you mean?’ The meagre man made a spasmodic movement of his right hand towards his breast. ‘I haven’t grabbed anything. So you needn’t think it.’
‘Nobody said you had.’ Appleby rose and went over to the counter for a second cup of coffee. In his jacket pocket the fellow had something he set store by – and something he had grabbed.
‘I’ve lost my wallet.’ The man spoke quickly and defensively as Appleby returned to the little table. He tapped his chest with a hand that trembled. ‘Left it in a pub where I got some supper. Cleared me out.’
‘Bad luck.’ He had some command of his wits still, Appleby thought. He had realized the betrayal in that involuntary movement, and he had thought up this yarn to cover it. Only – what was rather odd – he had made the yarn sound as if it were true. Possibly it was true. ‘You mean,’ Appleby asked, ‘that you haven’t a penny?’
‘Not a mucking farthing. And it’s damned unfair.’ The man’s voice rose in a disagreeable but convincingly authentic whine. ‘It means I’m helpless against them, just when it all looked like coming my way.’
‘It sounds just too bad.’ Appleby applied himself to stirring his fresh cup of coffee. When he looked up it was to see his companion glancing furtively and apprehensively first out into the darkened street and then at the lovers sitting glumly over their silent quarrel in the other corner. ‘About that cat–’ Appleby said.
The meagre man’s head swung round as if at the blow of a fist. His face was ashen. ‘What do you know?’ he said hoarsely. ‘It wasn’t me! The cat got on his shoulder and he tripped. The gun went off–’ He fell back in his chair, and both his hands went to his throat as if to choke words that it would be fatal to utter.
‘There was a gun in this affair of Miles’ cat?’
‘You’re making me mix things.’ The voice was now no more than a whisper. ‘It’s not evidence. It’s against the law. The judges don’t allow it.’
‘Never mind the judges, Mr – ?’
‘Routh.’
Appleby looked at his companion curiously. He was certainly pretty well through; he had handed over his name as if drugged. It was the moment for a shot that was wholly in the dark. ‘Routh,’ he asked sharply, ‘when were you last in Milton Porcorum?’
It was a hit. The man calling himself Routh uttered a strangled cry and made a futile effort to get to his feet. ‘You do belong to them,’ he whispered. ‘You must. You know.’
‘I am a policeman. I know a good deal, but I am a policeman, all the same.’ Appleby’s voice, low, slow and clear, was like a hypnotist’s addressing a man in a trance. ‘The cats, Routh. Miles’ cat. The other cat. They are both out of the bag. But you are safe with the police. Safe. We’ll go to the police station and you can tell me just as much as you want to. Or they’ll give you a bed. They always do, if you’ve lost all your money. A bed where the biggest gang of crooks in England couldn’t get at you. Come along.’
And Appleby got Routh to his feet and out of the café. It was like handling a drunk. The night air was chilly but the man scarcely revived in it; his feet scraped and stumbled on the pavement; his head turned from side to side blindly in an empty convention of vigilance. He would be an unsuitable guest to introduce into the Provost’s lodgings, for he would provoke too much curiosity on the part of anyone who set eyes on him. Yet Appleby was determined to hold on to Routh. In some undefined way the man was a link in the chain – tenuous but perhaps vital – that bound together Ourglass and Kolmak and Milton Porcorum. The police station, then, was the thing. If Routh had no great crime or misdemeanour on his conscience, then tact, a square meal, warmth, the law in its benevolent aspect of a powerful protector, would in all probability get his story from him. Alternatively, there was
the fact that he was without visible means of support and had been loitering in a manner suggesting wrongful intentions; on the strength of this the poor devil could be charged, and his background and movements rapidly investigated.
But it was a considerable distance to police headquarters in St Aldate’s, and Appleby remembered that there would still be cabs in the rank in St Giles’. He turned left down a side street. ‘Come along,’ he said encouragingly. ‘We’ll cut down here and get a taxi.’
Routh hesitated. ‘It’s dark,’ he whispered. ‘And lonely. I don’t like it. They may be waiting in it.’
The little street was certainly deserted and poorly lighted. Appleby took a side glance at the dim silhouette of his companion, wondering what queer adventure had reduced him to this state. ‘I don’t think we need worry about that,’ he said. ‘We’re in Oxford, you know; not Cairo or Casablanca.’
He took Routh’s arm and gently impelled him forward. The man moved on beside him, unsteadily, but without resistance. Appleby felt satisfied. This was an odd and unexpected evening’s work. But he had an instinct that it was getting him somewhere, and that he had at least a fringe of his problem under control.
At this moment Routh gave a weak cry, and for a fraction of a second Appleby was aware of himself as surrounded by figures that had sprung up apparently from nowhere. Then something was thrown over his face, and his head swam. He heard the engine of a car coming up the deserted street behind him. He smelt what he recognized as chloroform. He was fleetingly aware of having made a mistake – some ridiculous mistake. And then consciousness deserted him.
3
Like Pericles in the play, Appleby came to his senses to the sound of music. For what appeared an infinity of time it was a music of obscurely sinister suggestion. It set a problem with which his mind seemed to wrestle down long corridors. It reminded him of some careless and fatal error. For this he hunted through long stretches of labouring hours. And then it came to him. He had, through some absurd vagary of the mind, imagined himself in Oxford when he was, of course, in Cairo. This music witnessed to the sober geographical truth. It was like no music that is familiar to western ears. Rising and falling fitfully, it passed from harmony to discord and from discord to harmony…
Memory stirred abruptly in Appleby. He opened his eyes upon a small room into which daylight was filtering through a light-coloured blind. He was on a bed, partly undressed, and warm beneath a feather covering. Frau Kolmak was standing beside him with a coffee pot. And from just outside came the low music of the aeolian harp.
‘Good morning, Sir John. I believe you are none the worse for your adventure – no?’ Frau Kolmak set down the coffee, turned to the window, raised the blind, and appeared to take an appraising glance at the roofs of North Oxford. ‘Kurt will be here augenblicklich – in a moment. He is shaving. The possession of a bathroom is a great satisfaction to him.’
Appleby sat up. ‘Does your nephew commonly go about the streets at night, chloroforming people?’
Frau Kolmak laughed. ‘You are confused. He will explain. I too am confused. It appears that Kurt has said something to the driver of a cab – something that in Oxford he judged it not possible to say. He is pleased.’ Frau Kolmak lowered her voice. ‘There are matters of which I hope he will speak to you.’ She glided from the room.
Appleby sat up and drank the coffee. It seemed to him extremely good. But it always does, he reflected lucidly, when provided by persons with continental associations. Preponderantly, it must be a matter of suggestion. He looked up and saw Kolmak standing before him.
Kolmak bowed. In his prized private bathroom he had evidently shaved with the greatest nicety; he was dressed with some formality in a black jacket and striped trousers; this, Appleby conjectured, was a civil tribute to the presence in his household of a high official of the police. ‘Good morning,’ Kolmak said. ‘I hope, Sir John, that you are not too badly shaken–’
‘I’m not shaken at all. Where is Routh?’
‘Your companion of last night? He is in the little room’ – Kolmak made some gesture indicating some far corner of his domain – ‘and still asleep. I had not realized that he was your colleague.’
‘My colleague?’ Appleby stared, and then – a little painfully – smiled. ‘Well, we’ll talk about that presently. Will you tell me first how we got back here?’
‘With the man you call Routh there was no difficulty. He is of slight build. I got him upstairs myself. But you, Sir John, presented a more serious problem.’ Kolmak paused and clicked his fingers. He appeared confused. ‘But how clumsy I am in expressing myself in English still! I do not mean to suggest that you are a heavy man. Your figure, if I may say so, might reasonably be described as a spare one – is not that the word? But your height–’
‘Quite so. But do I understand that you really managed to haul me up all those stairs while unconscious? It’s unbelievable.’
‘The difficulty was not insuperable. My aunt helped. And the Misses Tinker too.’
‘God bless me!’ Appleby drained his coffee and swung himself off the bed. ‘Didn’t they think it a little out of the way?’
Kolmak nodded with some solemnity. ‘I ventured to suggest to them that matters of state security were involved. They will be models of discretion. And discretion appeared to me to be the most important. I knew, Sir John, that your position in the police did not necessarily mean that you wished any of your colleagues to be officially associated with you at the moment. This consideration guided my course of action from the first.’
‘I congratulate you.’ Appleby looked at his host in some astonishment. ‘And may I ask just what was your course of action from the first? So far as I can make the thing out, this fellow Routh and I were waylaid and kidnapped by an uncommonly bold gang of criminals. And now – here we are, hoisted up to your delightful flat through the efforts of your aunt and the Misses Tinker. If you feel at all like it, I should welcome an explanation.’
‘By all means. When you left us last night I was agitated, I was uneasy. The thought of your sister’s anxiety was very distressing to me. There are reasons why I should feel for her. After only a little hesitation I followed you downstairs, meaning to invite you back, or perhaps to have some conversation with you on your walk to Bede’s. But one of the Misses Tinker held me in talk – it is the habit of these Damen, as you will have remarked – and by the time that I got out of the house you were some way ahead. I hesitated, and followed you irresolutely for some way. Then you disappeared down the Sackgasse – how do you say it?’
‘The cul-de-sac.’
‘Aber! How wise you English are to enrich your already expressive language from the French! In Germany our purism in such matters – But that is not the point. I waited and heard voices. I was nervous – unaccountably nervous – and I concealed myself. When you appeared again it was with this man. For a second I saw him clearly under the street lamp. It was a shock to me. You must understand–’ Kolmak hesitated.
‘That you had had certain dealings with Routh already?’
‘Ja – wahrhaftig! I was startled that you should be associated with him. It was something that put me at a loss. I followed you at a distance until you disappeared into the little café. I lingered nearby, wondering whether to join you. You will judge, Sir John, that my conduct by this time was quite irrational. But I continued in doubt, and when you came out I followed you again. It was thus that I was nearby when the attack was launched upon you.’
Appleby smiled. ‘It seems fortunate that they didn’t chloroform you too.’
‘I was much disposed to sail in.’ Kolmak paused, apparently pleased with his command of this English idiom. ‘But there were four or five of them, and it seemed unlikely that I could improve matters. It was very well timed, and they had you both in the van in an instant. No sooner had they done so, however, than there was the sound of a car approaching from the far end of the street. At once they scattered, and the van drove off. But now I come to
the odd thing.’
‘To what you found it possible to say to a taxi driver?’
‘Ganz richtig! What approached was a taxi – and empty. In Oxford – I cannot tell why – one may not hail all taxis, but only certain taxis. It is a system I do not understand. But this taxi I hailed. It stopped. I jumped in and said “Follow that van.”’
‘It was most resourceful of you, Dr Kolmak.’
‘The man did so – without hesitation! We drove some way – I think it must have been down Little Clarendon Street – and were presently in St Giles’. I had a further thought. I said “Pass it before we reach Carfax”. He was the most understanding man. He ignored the traffic lights at Broad Street – this, I hope, will not get him into trouble – and was well ahead as we approached the crossroads. I called to him to stop, thrust a note into his hand, and jumped out. My hope was that the lights at Carfax would be against the van. And they were! I was waiting as it drew up. I stepped into the road. There was nobody but the driver, and the window on his near side was open. I thrust in an arm, switched off the engine, and withdrew the key. He was immobilized.’
Appleby laughed. ‘I am tempted to say that you have missed your true vocation.’
‘There was a constable, as there commonly is, on the farther kerb. But I was uncertain of the wisdom of inviting official intervention. I therefore said the to driver “Get out and go away; otherwise I will summon the constable.” He obeyed, for plainly he had no choice in the matter. I at once took his place, put back the key in the ignition, and drove on. The constable may have thought that the engine had failed – what is the word?’
‘Stalled.’
‘Thank you – stalled. But he was aware of nothing further. I took the route by Pembroke Street and St Ebbe’s, and drove home.’
‘You still have the van?’
‘No. When I had broken into it at the back, and the two of you were safely here stowed in the flat, it occurred to me that the van might well betray your whereabouts, supposing that those people were prowling the streets again. So I drove it to the car park near Gloucester Green and left it there.’
Operation Pax Page 16