Trouble on the Thames: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 1)

by Victor Bridges

  “But there’s nothing to prevent you clearing out.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t run away and leave you like this; it wouldn’t be fair. What you’ve got to do first is to get your memory back. When you know who you are and—and why you came here—”

  “ ’Fraid it won’t work. Before I’d gone a hundred yards I’d just flop down and pass out. That’d make things look fishier than ever.”

  “I’ve got a car outside. I can give you a lift.”

  “But what would you do with me? You’d have to dump me out somewhere. We can’t just drive around vaguely waiting for my memory to start functioning.”

  “No, you must go to bed and rest. If you have a good long sleep you may be all right again by to-morrow.”

  “That would mean trying to get in at a hotel or a lodging-house.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a hotel. They’d see that you’d had an accident and they would probably ring up the police.”

  “What am I to do, then? Crawl up to a hospital and park myself on the doorstep?”

  Sally hesitated. “I—I was going to suggest that you might come back to our place. We have a room in the basement where you could stay for the night. It’s a kind of workshop really, but there’s a big sofa in it, and you would be quite comfortable. I should have to explain to my partner, of course. You see, we live together above the office, and she’ll be waiting up for me.”

  “That’s damned sporting of you.” The stranger paused, surveying her with a kind of puzzled admiration. “I wonder if you quite realise how much you’re risking. You know, it’s a pretty serious business hiding a bloke who may have committed a murder.”

  “But you haven’t.” Sally shook her head firmly. “I’m positive of that now or I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

  “You certainly have the knack of encouraging one.”

  “I feel that we’re both in a horrible jam and that we ought to help each other. You must have had some reason for coming here, and you must know what happened before you were knocked down and stunned. As soon as you’re better you’ll remember all about it, and then we can decide what we’re going to do. We shall have to talk it over with Ruth. She’s my partner, and she’s frightfully sensible and level-headed.”

  With a wan smile and a faint shrug the other dragged himself to his feet. “I’ll leave it to you,” he observed wearily. “I oughtn’t to let you stick your neck out like this, but I feel too groggy to start arguing. By the way, have you any objection to telling me your name?”

  “It’s Deane, Sally Deane. Ruth and I run a decorating business. We’ve got a place in the King’s Road, Chelsea, and that’s where I’m going to take you.” She switched the light back upon the body, and repressing an instinctive shudder moved reluctantly towards it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I came to see him about a letter, a letter he was using to get money out of a friend of mine. It may be in one of his pockets.”

  “I’ll have a look. You stay where you are.” Bending down shakily, the stranger made a hurried search through the dead man’s clothing. In a few seconds he had completed his task. “Nothing here,” he announced. “At least, only a cigarette case and a lighter. Somebody’s been through him already, and done the job pretty thoroughly.”

  “Damn!” Raising the torch, Sally glanced hastily round the room. For the first time she realised that the whole place was in a state of wild disorder. Every drawer and cupboard appeared to have been wrenched open, and a large proportion of their contents lay scattered about the floor. She stared at the wreckage with a feeling of sick dismay.

  “We can’t search through all that stuff: it would take ages. We must get away at once before anyone comes along and finds us.” Without waiting for a reply, she put her hand on her companion’s arm. “The car’s quite close—just the other side of the lane. You’ll be able to manage that, won’t you? Hold on to me, and I’ll help you if you feel faint.”

  ***

  Slumped down in the corner of the back seat, his eyes closed and his head still throbbing with a dull, persistent ache, Owen battled valiantly against a strong inclination to be sick. The effort of crossing the road and climbing into the car had left him completely exhausted. He felt so ill and dazed that any further attempt to wrestle with the incredible situation in which he found himself seemed for the present to be utterly beyond his power.

  From one fact alone he was able to derive a certain defin-ite comfort. Whatever effect the injury had produced upon his memory, it had not altogether robbed him of his wits. The events of the last ten minutes were at least perfectly clear and distinct. He could recollect everything that had occurred from that first bewildering moment when he had recovered his senses, and grimly fantastic as the whole business was, he could see no substantial grounds for questioning its reality. The man in the bungalow had undoubtedly been murdered, and judging by the circumstances, it was quite conceivable that he himself had committed the crime. For some reason, however, this girl, Sally Deane, who had made such a timely and miraculous appearance on the scene, was evidently convinced of his innocence. Anyhow, she was prepared to run the risk of sheltering and concealing him until his memory returned, and in his present state of physical prostration that was the only matter which seemed to be of immediate importance. What he needed was sleep—a long spell of deep, refreshing sleep, from which he would wake up into a sane and familiar world.

  After a little while the feeling of nausea became rather less acute, and in spite of the swinging and bumping of the car he began to drift into an uneasy, half-conscious doze. He was vaguely aware of the fact that the fields and hedges had given place to rows of villas, and that these in turn were being superseded by long vistas of closed and depressing-looking shops. Buses and trams loomed up out of the darkness and clattered past the window, while every now and then an abrupt halt in front of some forbidding traffic-light sent a fresh spasm of pain shooting through his head.

  At last, just as he was recovering from a particularly vicious jolt, the car swung round a corner and glided forward into what appeared to be a narrow and ill-lighted alley. In another second it had pulled up, and before he had had time to rouse himself properly, the girl in front had slipped down from her seat and jerked open the door.

  “Here we are,” she announced with a reassuring smile. “It’s quite close to my place, so you won’t have far to walk. How are you feeling now—any better?”

  “Just a shade, I think—still a bit wobbly about the knees.” By a colossal effort he succeeded in scrambling out.

  “Well, sit down on that step while I shove the car in. It’s quite all right: no one’s the least likely to come along.”

  Obediently as a child he parked himself in an adjoining doorway, from which position he looked on in a sort of vague trance until his companion had completed her task. She was in the act of closing the garage door when a neighbouring clock chimed out the hour of twelve.

  After that things became a trifle blurred. He had a confused impression of being helped to his feet, guided out into a deserted side street and shepherded towards another and broader thoroughfare, up and down which a certain number of belated vehicles still appeared to be making their way. Ten yards beyond the corner, in front of an old-fashioned shop window, obscured by a drawn blind, a warning pressure on his arm brought him to a standstill. There was a brief pause followed by the click of a key, and the next instant he found himself stumbling forward through an open doorway with a small determined hand still directing his progress.

  “Stop where you are,” came a low whisper. “You’ll knock something over otherwise.”

  A sudden rose-shaded glow flooded the apartment, revealing various pieces of attractively arranged furniture and casting its soft, becoming light on the face of his companion. For the first time the fact that she was adorably pretty began to dawn slowly upon his muddled brain. Almost imme
diately, however, she was back again at his side, and before he quite realised what was happening he was being piloted carefully down a short flight of steps and ushered into a long, low-ceilinged room which seemed to be provided with an inordinate number of shelves and cupboards. Up against the wall in one corner stood an ancient but comfortable-looking divan.

  “This is the place I was telling you about. You will be absolutely safe here. Now what you’ve got to do is to lie down on this couch and keep perfectly still and quiet. I’m just going to run up and fetch Ruth. I shall be back again in a moment, and then I’ll have a look at your head. I’m sure it ought to be sponged and bandaged.”

  “Feel I’m being a crashing nuisance.” He sank back gratefully against a pile of cushions, and looked up into the beautiful but troubled blue eyes that were anxiously studying his face. “Nice name, Sally,” he murmured drowsily. “Just right for a guardian angel.”

  ***

  Ruth awoke with a guilty start and scrambled up hastily out of the big arm-chair in which she had been dozing.

  “Oh, it’s you, darling! Thank goodness you’re back.” She came forward, fastening her dressing-gown which had fallen open. “Well, how did you get on? Is he going to accept your offer?”

  Very slowly Sally removed her hat.

  “He’s dead,” she announced.

  “Dead!”

  “Dead,” repeated Sally. “Somebody came into the bungalow and stabbed him.”

  There was a profound silence which lasted for several seconds.

  “Gosh!” muttered Ruth huskily.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do it.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Shaking off her momentary paralysis, the other dragged forward a chair. “Sit down,” she commanded, “sit down there, and I’ll get you a drink. You—”

  “I don’t want a drink: I just want you to listen. I must tell you all about it. It’s—it’s so frightfully important.”

  Her partner gave a brief nod. “Go on,” she remarked.

  “When I got down to the bungalow it was all dark and there didn’t seem to be anybody about. Then I suddenly found that the door was open. I—I walked in and put on my torch, and—oh, Ruth, you can’t imagine the horrible shock I got. There he was lying on the floor in a great pool of blood with the handle of a knife sticking up between his shoulders.”

  She gave an involuntary shiver and covered her face with her hands.

  “It must have been ghastly. What did you do?”

  “I was so flabbergasted I nearly passed out. I had to hang on to the door for a moment or two. Then, just as I was feeling a little better, I heard a sort of groan, and I saw that there was someone else there as well.”

  “Someone else! You mean the murderer?”

  “I thought so at first, naturally. It was only when he began to talk that I felt I must be wrong.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He didn’t know himself. Couldn’t even remember how he got there. Somebody had hit him on the head, and he’d completely forgotten everything.”

  “What!”

  “Oh, of course it sounds phoney—horribly phoney—all the same, I’m quite sure that he was speaking the truth.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He wouldn’t stab a man in the back: he isn’t that sort.” Sally swallowed nervously. “If—if I wasn’t absolutely certain I shouldn’t have brought him here.”

  “You—wouldn’t—have—brought—him—here.” The words came out in a slow, stunned whisper.

  “Oh, Ruth, don’t be angry. What else could I do? Whoever he is, he’s quite decent and nice, and I couldn’t just walk out and leave him. If they’d found him there like that they’d have been bound to arrest him.”

  “But—but—oh, my God!” A trifle unsteadily Ruth walked across to the sideboard and tilted herself out a splash of whisky.

  “You see, even if he’s innocent,” continued Sally, “it would have been impossible for him to explain. He can’t account for anything until he gets his memory back. That may happen all of a sudden—directly it does—”

  “He’ll probably grab hold of another knife and stick it into us.” Ruth gulped off a mouthful of neat spirit and put down the glass. “You’re bats, darling—absolutely bats. Don’t you know that hiding a murderer—”

  “He’s not a murderer: I don’t care what anyone thinks.” Sally laid a hand on her partner’s arm. “Come and see him for yourself,” she begged pleadingly. “It’s the only way you can possibly judge.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the workroom lying on the sofa. I told him I was sharing the place with a friend and I promised I’d bring you down as soon as I’d had a chance to explain.”

  Ruth gave a sort of half-despairing shrug. “All right,” she said dully. “We may as well make a night of it now we’ve really started.”

  “Just a second while I collect one or two things. I must bandage up his head before he goes to sleep.”

  Hurrying into her bedroom, Sally came back with a sponge and bottle of iodine and a round, paper-covered packet. These she handed to Ruth, and then, crossing over to the fireplace, picked up a small brass kettle which was simmering away gently on the gas-ring.

  “That’s all we shall want,” she announced. “There’s a clean towel down there, and we can use the basin out of the lavatory. Won’t matter if it gets a little bloody.”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  With the resigned air of one to whom the worst has already happened, Ruth stepped out on to the landing. From here a winding flight of stairs ran down to the ground floor, terminating at a curtained arch which gave access to the shop. In another minute the two of them were standing in the narrow stone-flagged basement, where a shaft of light from the half-open workroom streamed out against the opposite wall.

  “He’s still awake: I can hear him moving about,” whispered Sally. “Wait here while I get the basin.”

  She disappeared through a doorway on the left, and emerging a moment later with an enamelled tin bowl tucked under her arm, led the way briskly up the passage. Looking rather like Lady Macbeth in the sleep-walking scene, Ruth followed in her wake.

  When they entered the long, somewhat ill-ventilated apartment their guest was in the act of settling himself back on the couch. His shoes and his rain-coat were lying on the floor alongside, and in his hand was a slightly battered silver cigarette case.

  “What have you been doing?” demanded Sally. “I told you to lie perfectly still.” She marched forward to the couch, and with a disapproving frown put down the basin and the kettle.

  “Sorry.” The speaker forced a penitent smile. “Felt I’d better get out of these before you came back. Didn’t know I was so wet and dirty.”

  “You’ve got to be good and obey orders.” Sally picked up a towel which was lying on the table. “This is Ruth,” she added. “I’ve explained everything, and she’s been fearfully nice and sporting about it.”

  “You’re both marvellous! I—”

  “Don’t talk. Just lie down and let me have a look at your head. It’s got to be washed and bandaged.”

  Without protesting the patient turned over on his side, and having rolled up her sleeves to the elbow, Sally set to work. Except for an occasional word to Ruth, who stood by acting as “dresser,” she conducted her ministrations in silence.

  “There!” she observed, straightening up with a relieved sigh. “That will keep it clean and stop it from bleeding. You’ve got a nasty bruise and it’s begun to swell a little, but I don’t think there’s any very serious damage.” She paused. “Why are you holding that cigarette case? Do you want to smoke?”

  “Thought I might find out who I was, so I had a run through my pockets. Only thing I dug up was this.”

  Sally leaned over him and scrutinised the monogram in
the centre. “Looks to me like an O and a B. I expect they’re your initials?”

  “Ought to be. Doesn’t seem to help, though.” The stranger wrinkled his forehead.

  “How about Oliver?” suggested Ruth.

  “Oliver will do for the time being.” Sally took the case from his hand and placed it on the table. “Don’t worry yourself by trying to think,” she continued: “it will all come back to you suddenly without the slightest effort. The only important thing now is that you should get off to sleep.”

  The grey eyes which were looking up into hers closed wearily.

  “O.K., angel,” murmured their owner.

  Taking charge of the discarded coat, which she hung over the back of the chair, Sally picked up the basin and moved towards the passage. Ruth, who meanwhile had collected the remainder of their medical equipment, followed in silence. At the last moment she turned to cast a final glance at the recumbent figure on the couch, and then, switching off the light, closed the door and turned the key. The latter object she transferred to the pocket of her dressing-gown.

  “Well, darling,” whispered Sally eagerly, “what do you make of him? He doesn’t look a bit like a murderer, does he?”

  Ruth shook her head.

  “I think he’s rather a pet,” she admitted. “All the same, I’m glad we had that lock mended.”

  Chapter VII

  Clattering noisily down the long slope, and crossing the stone bridge, the big, clumsy-looking farm lorry continued its journey up the opposite rise. Little by little the sound of its wheels faded into a low rumble, and raising his head, Mr. James Wilson was just in time to see it disappearing round the base of a distant tor. Then once again the bleak vista of rock and heath was as deserted and silent as ever.

  A forlorn enough figure, with his drab prison clothes and his unshaven chin, Wilson stood there amongst the thick cluster of brambles and gorse, where for the past fourteen hours he had been patiently waiting for another spell of darkness. As a hiding-place, which at the same time possessed all the advantages of an observation post, the spot had undoubtedly been well chosen. On one side it commanded an uninterrupted view of the road for the best part of a mile, while on the other, where the moor made an abrupt and precipitous descent, a wide panorama of lush meadows and dark-green splashes of woodland unrolled itself peacefully in the warm September twilight. It resembled one of those alluring railway posters which invite the prospective traveller to spend his holiday in “Glorious Devon.”