by Nevil Shute
I listened for a moment in the stillness, and stood up. “There’s a car coming now,” I said.
They must have made pretty good time from Gosport. I went through the hall to the door and opened it as the car drew up — a big American five-seater, perhaps a Stutz or Chrysler. Two men in uniform greatcoats got out of it; in the light that streamed from the door I could see that one of them was very young. As young as I was when I used to play that game.
The elder of the two came up the steps first, and stood peering at me for a moment. “Wing-Commander Dermott?” he inquired.
“He’s inside, waiting for you,” I replied. “Come in.”
I showed them through the hall into the library. Dermott and Arner were standing there together before the fire.
“Evening, Jackson,” said Dermott. “Squadron-Leader Jackson — Lord Arner.” He turned to Jackson again. “And . . .”
Jackson motioned to his companion. “Flying-Officer Mackenzie, sir,” he said. This was a sandy-haired, pale-faced young man. I don’t think he can have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old. He was a well set-up, athletic-looking young fellow, but he was curiously white; as he stood there his eyes were wandering uneasily around the room. It seemed to me that he was nervous, and more than a little shaken.
“What about the letters?” said Dermott briskly. “You’ve brought them with you?”
Jackson nodded. “There are three or four, sir,” he replied. “So far as I have been able to make out, this pilot was a German subject, operating from Kieff. There is an addressed envelope.”
He laid down a large official envelope, and opened it on the table. From it he took two crumpled letters and a little flat packet wrapped in some coarse cloth. “These are the letters,” he said.
Dermott opened them one by one, and skimmed rapidly through the spidery writing on the pages. “These are in German,” he said to Arner, and dropped his eyes to the paper again. “From his wife.” He muttered a sentence or two in German, half to himself, and flicked over the page. “They are addressed to Leutnant Friedrich Keumer, at an address in Kieff. They contain nothing but local gossip and news of his children. What one would expect. . . .”
He smiled at the paper, a little cynically. “‘Elsa has with Franz to the Steiner this afternoon gone,’” he read. “‘So I am alone.’”
He laid down the letter.
Arner inclined his head. “A German pilot flying for the Soviet?” he inquired.
“I think so,” replied Dermott. He reached for the cloth packet. “What’s in this?”
Jackson was before him, and took it up. “More letters, sir. Those that you have were found in one of the side pockets on the right-hand side. These are from the breast pocket on the left. I’m afraid you’ll find them in rather a mess.”
Dermott took the packet and unwrapped it carefully. Inside there was a sodden pulp of paper, reddish black in colour, and very sticky. He turned the mass over curiously with his forefinger, stared at it for a moment, and then wrapped it up again in the fabric.
“Can’t do much with these, I’m afraid,” he remarked coolly. “They’ll have to be treated.”
Arner nodded gravely. “Make that boy sit down,” he said. “He’s looking quite ill.”
I saw Mackenzie stiffen. “I’m quite all right sir,” he said.
Dermott and Jackson turned and stared at him. He was certainly very white.
I turned to Jackson. “You’ve had a long drive,” I said, “and it’s cold outside. What about a whisky?’
“That’s right,” said Arner. “Give him a whisky.” And while I was fiddling with the siphon and the glasses, Dermott turned again to Jackson.
“What was the machine?”
“A Breguet XIX with the Lorraine engine. She’s very badly crashed, and it’s dark. There was a camera, but the engine is on top of it at the moment. I left instructions that nothing was to be moved till dawn, on account of destroying any evidence. Till we can get a sheer-legs and lift the engine, we shan’t be able to get at the camera. The machine seems to be a single-seater, and fitted with an adjustable propeller. But that again — we haven’t examined.”
They began upon rather a lengthy technical discussion about the best means of salving any evidence in the wrecked machine. They congratulated each other on the fact that it had not caught fire.
“A German pilot,” said Dermott at last, “living in Russia, and flying a French machine.” He mused over it for a little. “We shall want to know more than that.”
He turned to Jackson again. “Did you have much difficulty in getting him down?”
“Mr. Mackenzie had better give you his report, sir.”
Mackenzie pulled himself up and set down his glass. There was more colour about him now; I’d made that whisky a good one.
“No, sir,” he said. “It went all right this time.”
Dermott eyed him for a moment. “How long did you take to get away?”
Jackson interposed. “The machines — three of them — were off the ground thirty-five seconds after the first alarm,” he said. “We have been practising that in the last few days. With Hucks starters.”
“That’s very good indeed,” said Dermott. “What happened then?”
“Mr. Mackenzie,” said Jackson.
The boy came forward. “There was a bright moon,” he said, “and the searchlights were holding the machine. I didn’t have to go and look for it.”
He paused.
“The searchlights picked up the machine almost at once,” said Jackson. “From Gosport, and from a destroyer off Southsea. As soon as the flare appeared.”
Dermott interposed. “The pilot first, Major Jackson.”
Mackenzie drew himself up nervously. “I took off as soon as the starter was clear,” he said. “Before the landing lights came on. Flight-Lieutenant Armstrong was next off the ground, I think. And then Hesketh.”
“On what machines?”
“I was flying the Nightjar, sir. Armstrong and Hesketh were on Doves.”
He paused to collect his story. “I came up with the Breguet about a minute and a half later, at about two thousand feet,” he said. “That was over Southsea. I think Armstrong was somewhere near me, but I don’t remember seeing him. The machine was still in the searchlights, but it was slipping about a good bit and very nearly clear of them. But there was a good moon, and even if he’d got clear we’d still have been able to see him, I think. I switched on the fighting beam at once and pooped off a green Very light at him, as we’d arranged.”
Dermott inquired: “Did he take any notice?”
“Not that I saw, sir. He got clear of the searchlights almost directly after that. I could still see him faintly in the moonlight, and brilliantly whenever I got the fighting beam on to him, of course. He slipped right round then, and went away to the west, full out. I went after him.”
He paused again. “I didn’t gain much on him. I think he must have been very nearly as fast as the Nightjar, sir. I lost all touch with Poddy then. We left the Doves behind. We went away west for minutes on end, and when I’d closed up till he filled the ring of my sight in the fighting light I gave him a burst of tracer bullets, sir. Over his head.”
“Did he make any reply to your fire? At any time?”
The boy swallowed violently. “No, sir. I don’t think he had a gun.”
“Did your fire have any effect at all?”
“No, sir. I thought at first he was giving up after that, because he turned away and I lost sight of him for a moment. I thought perhaps he’d shut off, and was going down to land. And then I picked him up again. He’d turned north, and he was still going full out. We were over the Solent then, and somewhere west of Lee.”
Dermott eyed him keenly. “What happened then?”
“I was afraid he would get away, sir. I was running my engine full out with the supercharger. It’s not meant to be run like that below fifteen thousand feet, but I was afraid he’d get away from me. I
couldn’t have kept up with him any other way.”
Jackson interrupted. “Mr. Mackenzie means that he could only rely upon his engine to give that excess power for a very short time. He had to act quickly, or not at all. As you know, sir — I had given explicit orders that the machine was to be shot down in those circumstances.”
Dermott nodded. “I know,” he said. “Mr. Mackenzie did quite right.”
He turned to the boy. “So then you shot him down?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a little silence. The pilot was staring uneasily around him, as though he was afraid to meet our eyes. “It was about half-way between Lee and Hamble,” he muttered. “I closed right up and gave him three bursts into the fuselage. He pulled her right up as if he was going to loop over me . . . and then he fell out of that into a spin with full engine on, I think, and went down like that. I saw him flicking round. And I saw him hit a tree. . . .”
His voice died away into silence.
“You went back to the aerodrome?”
“No, sir. I flew about low over the fields for a bit, till I found what I thought was a pasture. It looked smooth enough, so I landed in it, with the flares. It turned out to be harrow, but I got her down all right.
“It was two fields from the crash,” he said. “I left the Nightjar with the lights on so that anyone flying over would see where I had put down. And I ran across the fields to the crash, sir. And as I went, I heard Poddy Armstrong land behind me.
“You were the first person to reach the crash, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was the pilot still alive?”
“Yes, sir.” There was a short silence. “The machine was very badly crashed — the fuselage all telescoped on to him. I had to shift the top plane before I could get at the pilot. When I got that out of the way I tried to get him out of his seat, but his legs were caught somehow. And when I tried to move him, he cried out, sir.” The boy’s face was dead white. “So I had to leave him where he was, and I just did all I could to get him into a comfortable position and find out how he was hurt. You see, sir, it was all dark, and I couldn’t see very well what I was doing. I did all I could.” He stared round at us, as though he expected us to disbelieve him. “And he kept on trying to tell me something, but I don’t speak German, and I didn’t understand. And then Captain Armstrong came. And a minute or two after that, he died.”
Arner turned away, and sat down quietly before the fire, and began polishing his glasses with a handkerchief.
“Can you remember anything of the sound of the words?” asked Dermott. “Enough to repeat what he was trying to tell you?”
The boy shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir. I was . . . rather upset.”
Dermott bit his lip, and tapped the cloth-covered packet. “You say that these were taken from the breast pocket? In that case they’ll be the important ones.”
Jackson nodded. “The body was considerably shot about,” he said. “Those were the only papers we could find. It’s possible that there may be other evidence in the machine. Maps, for example. I have had nothing touched.”
There was a pause.
“That’s very likely,” said Dermott at last. “I’ll come back with you to Gosport.” He glanced out of the window; it was still quite dark. “It should be getting light soon,” he said. “We’ll start directly.”
He turned to me. “You were quite right this evening, Mr. Moran. Evidently, if the machine landed here on Thursday night, she repaired the trouble and got away again.”
Arner raised his head by the fireside. “Why does she keep on coming, night after night? She can learn all she wants to by one visit.”
Dermott shook his head. “I don’t know. We may find something to explain that in the machine.
“Anyway,” he said, “we’ve got her this time.”
He asked if his suitcase could be packed. I went out into the hall and found Sanders drowsing in the gun-room, and sent him off to see about it. When I came back, Dermott was going over the details of the affair again with the other two. Arner was still sitting before the fire, still taking little notice of what was going on behind him, still leaning forward and polishing his glasses. I remember that at the time I was very much impressed with that little action of his. Of all the people in the room that night Arner was most able to appreciate the significance of that affair, and of all the people in the room he was the least excited, the most detached.
At last Dermott had finished. “Right,” he said to Jackson. “We’ll start at once. If you wouldn’t mind going out to the car. . . .”
And when they were out of the room, he turned to Arner. “We’re in for the devil of a row over this night’s work, sir, I’m afraid,” he said. “We shall have questions in the House.”
“Which will certainly not be answered,” said Arner quietly. “But in regard to Russia . . . I don’t know. It depends on Allen now.”
I had a quick impression of the tremendous forces that were massing together for a catastrophe.
Dermott walked nervously down the room, and swung round at the other end. “I don’t see what else we could have done.”
“Nothing,” said Arner. “You could have done nothing more.” He rose to his feet before the fire, a short, portentous little figure. “This thing will have to take its course.”
And that was all of any importance that was said. In a minute or two Sanders came and told us that the Commander’s bag was in the car. Dermott rose to take his leave. Through the open door I saw Jackson and Mackenzie in the hall, buttoning up their coats.
“I am very sorry for that young man,” said Arner.
Dermott smiled. “He’s young. A good lad, but he’s not long out of Cranwell. He’ll get over it. Jackson’s very good with them. He’ll probably send him off on a month’s leave, and that’ll put him right.”
He drew on his coat, and went. I walked with him to the door, and waited outside at the head of the steps till I saw the lights of the car swing round to make a brilliant tunnel of the drive. The night was practically cloudless. The moon was sinking, and the east of the sky was getting a little grey.
I went back into the library. Arner had settled down again before the fire and was slowly turning the pages of the Studio, the big volume firmly posed upon his knees. In one hand he held his glasses before his eyes.
I asked if there was anything that I could do. At his instructions I fetched the telephone from the morning-room and plugged it in beside him, and set it on the table by his side.
And then: “You’d better go back to bed, Moran,” he said. “There’s nothing more.”
I hesitated for a moment outside the circle of light from his reading-lamp. “What about you, sir,” I inquired. “Won’t you go up to bed yourself?”
He shook his head. “I think I shall stay up for a little,” he replied, and by his voice I knew that he wanted to be alone.
I went out of the mansion by the garden door, and went round to the stable-yard and to my own house. It was about half-past five, and the sky was getting very grey. I knew that I should sleep no more that night, but I went into my bedroom and threw off my clothes, and got back into bed.
It was full dawn when I gave it up, got up again, and dressed. In the next room to my own I could hear Lenden’s steady breathing as he slept, even and regular. I went through into my sitting-room, and the first thing I saw in there was that black box of plates on top of the safe. Looking back upon it all now, I find it very curious to realise how careless of that thing we were. It might just as well have been inside the safe, but we left it lying about on top. As if it was of no consequence.
I moved across the room and took the thing up from the safe, turning it over absently in my hands. I was worried about Arner. I couldn’t get any sleep myself, but the thought that the old man might still be sitting over there in the library, still turning over the pages of the Studio in the bright morning, worried me more than a little. He was too old for that sort of th
ing. I decided to go over to the mansion again to see if there was anything that I could do for him; if I could persuade him to go up to bed.
But as I went, I slipped that packet of plates into the pocket to my coat. I suppose I must have known even then what I was going to do.
I crossed the yard and entered the mansion again by the back door. There was a maid in the kitchen, yawning and fiddling with the grate; when she saw me in the corridor her mouth shut with an almost audible click. I passed on into the house.
There was nobody about. The library was empty, and that volume of the Studio was replaced in the shelf with the others. Arner had given it up. I went over to the window and drew the curtains; the rings went rattling back along the pole and the sunlight streamed in upon the room. It was exactly as I had always known it. As usual in that room, everything was more or less in its place but not quite; there was no indication of what had happened there during the night. There was nothing to show that I had not dreamed of Dermott and of Jackson, nothing to show that the evidence of that white young man was anything more than a distressing form of nightmare. Till my eye caught the whisky decanter and the scattered glasses, and I knew that it was all quite true.
I don’t know how long I stood there like that — I dare say it was only for a minute or two. It was long enough for the sense of a great responsibility to come upon me, and of a great loneliness. I had those plates in my pocket. It was up to me now; I had chosen to conceal the man who took them, and now I had to do something with the ruddy things. I couldn’t bring myself to let him get back to Russia with them, unhindered. I discovered, as I stood there in the library that morning, that it is one thing to assist in the escape of a renegade spy from justice, but quite another thing to play the part oneself.
And then I heard steps. They were on the stairs that went up at the far end of the hall in a wide, shallow flight, and then they were on the parquet of the hall itself. I knew that it was Sheila at the first sound. I would have known that two years before. I stood there motionless until she came; I heard her pause first at the door of the drawing-room, and then come on down the hall.