I
was free now but I felt rather sick. I could still smell the
smoke of the dynamite and an hour later I had to rest.
It
was about eleven o'clock when I reached the road
safely.
I wanted to go back to Mr. Turnbull's cottage. My coat was
there, with Scudder's note-book in the pocket, and I had to have
that book. My plan then was to find the railway and travel to
the south. After that I would go straight to Artinswell to meet
Sir Walter Bullivant.
It
was a beautiful night. I knew that Turnbull's cottage was about
eighteen miles away. It was too far for me to walk before
morning. So I decided to hide during the day and travel only at
night.
When
the sun rose, I was near a river. I washed in the clean cold
water because I was very dirty. My shirt and trousers were torn,
and I was afraid to meet anyone in that condition. But a little
beyond the river I came to a cottage. And I was so hungry that I
had to stop there.
The
man was away from the house, and at first his wife was
suspicious of me. She picked up an axe and seemed quite ready to
attack me.
'I've had a bad fall in the hills,' I said, 'and I'm feeling ill.
Will you help me?'
She
did not ask any questions but invited me into the house. She
gave me a glass of milk and some bread and cheese. Then I sat by
the fire in her kitchen and we talked. I offered her a sovereign
for her trouble, but she refused it at first.
'If
it isn't your money, I don't want it,' she said.
I
grew quite angry. 'But it i's my money. Do you think that I have
stolen it?'
She
accepted it then and unlocked a cupboard in the wall. She took
out and gave me a warm Scottish plaid and one of her
husband's hats. When I left her cottage, I was like a real
Scotsman!
I
walked for two or three hours. Then the weather changed and it
began to rain. But I kept warm and dry under the plaid. A little
later I came to a large rock which hung over some low ground.
The grass under the rock was quite dry. So I lay down and slept
there all day.
When
I woke up, it was almost dark. The weather was still wet and
cold, and I was uncertain about the way. Twice I took the
wrong path and probably walked twenty miles. But at six
o'clock in the morning I reached Mr. Turnbull's cottage.
Mr. Turnbull opened the door himself, but he did not recognize me.
'Who are you?' he asked. 'Why do you come here on a Sunday
morning? I'm just getting ready to go to church.'
I
had forgotten the days of the week. Every day had seemed the
same to me. I felt so ill that I could not answer him. But
then he recognized me.
'Have
you got my glasses?' he asked.
I
took them out of my pocket and gave them to him.
'Of
course you've come back for your coat,' he said. 'Come in,
man. You look very ill. Wait. I'll get you a chair.'
When
I was in Rhodesia, I had often had malaria. And it was still
in my body. I knew the signs of it very well. Now the rain and
the cold had brought it back again. But soon
Mr. Turnbull was taking off my clothes and leading me to the
bed.
I
stayed with him for ten days, and he looked after me very
well. The malaria lasted about six days. Then my body grew
cool again and I got up.
He
went out to work every morning and returned in the evening. I
used to rest all day. He had a cow which gave us milk. And
there was always some food in the house.
One
evening I said, 'There's a small airfield about fifteen miles
away. Have you ever seen it? A little plane lands there
sometimes. Do you know who owns the place?'
'I
don't know,' he said. 'I've seen the plane, of course, but I
don't know anything about it.'
He
brought me several newspapers while I was staying with him.
And I read them with interest. But I saw nothing about the
murder in London.
Turnbull
did not ask me any questions, not even my name. I was
surprised about this, and one day I said, 'Has anyone asked
you about me?'
'There
was a man in a motor-car,' he said. 'He stopped one day and
asked me about the other roadman. That was you of course. He
seemed such a strange fellow that I didn't tell him anything.'
When
I left the cottage, I gave Turnbull five pounds. He did not
want to take the money at all. His face grew red, and he was
quite rude to me. But at last he took it and said, 'I don't
want money. When I was ill, you helped me. Now you've been
ill, and I've helped you. It isn't worth a lot of money.'
The
weather was beautiful that morning, but I was beginning to
feel nervous. It was the 12th of June, and I had to finish
Scudder's business before the 15th.
I
had dinner at a quiet inn in Moffat and then went to
the railway station. It was seven o'clock in the evening.
'What
time does the train go to London?' I asked.
'Ten
minutes to twelve,' the railway man said.
It
was a long time to wait, so I left the station. I
found a quiet
place near a hill-top and lay down there to sleep. I was so
tired that I slept until twenty minutes to twelve. Then I
ran down to the station where the train was waiting.
I decided not to go to London. I got out of the train at Crewe
and waited there for two hours. The next train took me to
Birmingham, and I reached Reading at six o'clock in the evening.
Two hours later I was looking for Sir Walter
Bullivant's cottage at Artinswell.
The
River Kennet flowed beside the road. The English air was
sweet and warm, quite different from Scottish air. I stood
for a few minutes on a bridge which crossed the river. And I
began to sing 'Annie Laurie' in a low voice.
A
fisherman came up from the bank of the river. As he walked
towards me, he began to sing 'Annie Laurie' also.
The
fisherman was a great big fellow. He was wearing an old pair
of grey trousers and a large hat. He looked at me and
smiled. And I thought that he had a wise and honest face.
Then he looked down with me at the water.
'It's
clean and clear, isn't it?' he said. 'The Kennet's a fine river.
Look at that big fish down there. But the sun has gone now. If
you tried all night, you wouldn't catch him.'
'Where?'
I said. 'I can't see him.'
'Look.
Down there. A yard from those water plants.'
'Oh,
yes. I can see him now. He's like a big black stone, isn't he?'
'Ah,'
he said, and sang a few more words of 'Annie Laurie'.
He
was still looking down at the water as he said, 'Your name is
Twisdon, I believe.'
'No,'
I said. Then I suddenly remembered my other names and added
quickly, 'Oh, yes, that's right.'
He
laughed. 'A good spy always knows his own name,' he said.
Some
men were crossing the bridge behind us, and Sir Walter raised
his voice.
'No,
I won't,' he said. 'You're strong enough to work, aren't you?
You can get a meal from my kitchen, but I won't give you a
penny.'
The
men went past, and the fisherman moved away from me. He pointed
to a white gate a hundred yards away and said, 'That's my house.
Wait here for five minutes and then go around to the back door.'
When
I reached his cottage, the back door was open. Sir Walter's
butler was waiting to welcome me.
'Come
this way, sir,' he said, and he led me up the stairs. He took me
into one of the bedrooms. There was a complete set of clothes on
the bed. I noticed a dinner-suit and a clean white shirt. But
there were other clothes too and several pairs of shoes.
'I
hope that these things will fit you, sir,' the butler said.
'Your bath is ready in the next room. I'll ring the bell for
dinner at nine o'clock, sir.'
When
he had gone out, I sat down. I thought that I was dreaming. At
this time the day before I had been asleep on a Scottish
hill-top. Now I was in this wonderful
house,
and Sir Walter did not even know my name.
I
had a bath and then put on the white shirt and the dinner-suit.
Everything fitted me very well. The bell rang for dinner, and I
went down to meet Sir Walter.
'You're
very kind, sir,' I said, 'but I must tell you the truth. I
haven't done anything wrong, but the police are looking for me
at this moment.'
He
smiled. 'That's all right. We can talk about these things after
dinner. I'm glad that you got here safely.'
I
enjoyed that meal, and the wine was good too. Sir Walter was an
interesting man who had travelled in many foreign countries. I
talked about Rhodesia and the fish in the Zambezi River, and he
told me some of his adventures.
After
dinner we went into his library, and the butler brought us
coffee. It was a very nice room, with books and fine pictures
around the walls. I decided to buy a house like that when I had
finished Scudder's work.
Sir
Walter lay back in his chair.
'I've
obeyed Harry's orders,' he said. 'And now I'm ready to listen,
Mr. Hannay. You've got some news, I believe.'
I
was surprised to hear my real name, but I began my story. And I
told him everything. I described my meeting with Scudder and his
fears about Karolides. I told him about the murder and my
adventure with the milkman.
'Where
did you go then?' he asked.
'I
went to Galloway. I soon discovered the secret of Scudder's code
and then I could read his notes.'
'Have
you still got them?'
'Yes.'
Then
I described my meeting with Sir Harry and how I had helped him
at Brattleburn.
Sir
Walter laughed. 'Harry can't make a speech,' he said. 'He's a
very good fellow but his ideas are all wrong. Go on with your
story, Mr. Hannay.'
I
told him about Turnbull then and my job as a roadman.
He
was very interested in that.
'Can
you describe those fellows in the car?' he asked.
'Well,
one of them was thin and dark. I had seen him before at the inn
with the fat one. But I didn't know the third man who was older
than the others.'
'And
what happened after that?'
'I
met Marmaduke Jopley next, and had a bit of fun with him.' Sir
Walter laughed again when I described that part of the story.
But he did not laugh at the bald old man in the farmhouse.
'How
did you escape from the place?' he asked.
'I
found dynamite, fuses and detonators in a cupboard,' I replied,
'and I almost destroyed the building. There's a small airfield
there where the plane lands. After that I was ill for a week
with malaria. It would have been worse if I hadn't had the thick
plaid. And Turnbull looked after me very well. Then I travelled
south by train, and here I am.'
Sir
Walter stood up slowly and looked down at me.
'You
needn't be afraid of the police, Hannay,' he said. 'They aren't
looking for you now,'
I
was surprised to hear this.
'Why?'
I cried. 'Have they found the murderer?'
'No,
not yet. But the police know that you didn't kill Scudder.'
'How
do they know that?'
'Because
I received a letter from Scudder. He had done several jobs for
me, and I knew him quite well. He was a good spy with only one
fault.'
'What
was that?'
'He
always wanted to work alone, and he failed for that reason. The
best spies always work with other spies, but Scudder couldn't do
that. I was very sorry about it because he was a fine fellow and
a very brave man. I had a letter from him on May 31st.'
'But
he was dead then. He was murdered on May 23rd, wasn't he?'
'Yes,
and he wrote the letter on the 23rd. He was always
trying
to deceive his enemies. So he sent the letter first to Spain,
and then it came back to England.'
'What
did he write about?'
'He
told me that Britain was in great danger. He also said that he
was staying with a good friend. And I believe that the
"good friend" was you, Hannay. He promised to write
again soon.'
'What
did you do then?'
'I went to the police immediately. They had discovered your
name and we sent a telegram to Rhodesia. The answer was all
right, so we were not suspicious about you. I guessed why you
had left London. You wanted to continue Scudder's work, didn't
you? Then I got Harry's letter and I guessed that Twisdon was
Richard Hannay.'
I
was very glad to hear all this. My country's enemies were my
enemies, but the police were now my friends. And I was a free
man again!
The
big fisherman sat down and smiled at me.
'Show
me Scudder's notes,' he said.
I
took out the little book and began to explain the code to him.
He was very quick and he knew what the names meant. We worked
hard for an hour or more.
'Scudder
was right about one thing,' he said. 'A French officer is
coming to London on June 15th, and that's the day after
tomorrow. I thought that it was all secret. Of course we know
that there are a few German spies in England. We've got some
of our fellows in Germany too. But how did they all discover
the secret of this Frenchman's visit? I don't believe
Scudder's story about war and the Black Stone. He used to have
some strange ideas.'
Sir
Walter stood up again and walked about the room. 'The Black
Stone,' he repeated. 'Der Schwarzestein. It's like
something out of a cheap story, isn't it? I don't believe the
part about Karolides either. He's an important man, I know,
but nobody wants to kill him. There may be some danger which
Scudder had heard about. But it isn't very important. It's the
usual spy business which the Germans
enjoy
very much. Sometimes they kill a man, as they killed Scudder.
And the German Government pays them for it.'
The
butler came into the room.
'It's
the telephone, sir,' he said. 'Your office in London. Mr. Heath
wants to speak to you.'
Sir
Walter left the library. When he returned a few minutes later,
he looked quite pale.
'Scudder
was right,' he said, 'and I was wrong. Karolides is dead. He was
shot about three hours ago.' |