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Title: Marazan
Author: Shute, Nevil [Norway, Nevil Shute] (1899-1960)
Date of first publication [original version]: 1926
Date of first publication [new edition, revised and with
   a new Author's Note]: 1951 [1952]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Ballantine Books, August 1982
   [third Canadian printing;
   first Ballantine edition December 1970]
Date first posted: 19 March 2015
Date last updated: 19 March 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1241

This ebook was produced by Alex White, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained.

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

The two lines of poetry quoted at the start of the novel,
quoted again in Chapters Two and Nine, are from
"The Sons of Martha", by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936).
The poem was first published in 1907 and later included
in Kipling's 1918 collection "Twenty Poems".

The lyrics quoted in Chapter One ("The Lord Mayor of London...)
are by Cumberland Clark (1862-1941), and are from the song
"The Ogo-Pogo. The Funny Fox-Trot".

The six-line quotation in Chapter Two ("Thy dawn, O Master of
the world, thy dawn") is from a play "Hassan" by James Elroy Flecker
(1884-1915), first published in 1922.  Its full title is
"HASSAN : The Story of Hassan of Bagdad and how he came to
make the Golden Journey to Samarkand : A Play in Five Acts".

The Kipling passage twice quoted in Chapter Six
("Our England is a garden...") is from "The Glory of the Garden",
first published in 1911 as part of "A School History of England".

The six-line quotation in Chapter Nine "Some girls work
in factories..." is a version of the traditional song
"Bang Bang Lulu", popular during both World Wars, and existing
in hundreds of versions, mostly obscene. It is likely that
"working ladies" in line 4 is a substitute for "whores".






                                MARAZAN

                             by Nevil Shute





AUTHOR'S NOTE

This was the first of my books to be published, and in reissuing it
after twenty-five years of obscurity I feel that it may interest young
writers if I put down a few reflections about it. It was published when
I was twenty-seven years old, and it was preceded by two novels which
were quite unpublishable, because everybody has to learn his trade. It
was written in the evenings while I was working at Crayford in Kent on
the preliminary design of the airship R.100, as chief calculator, or
mathematician. The whole book was written through from start to finish
three times, so that it took me about eighteen months.

So much is published in this modern age about murder, detection, and
prison that a young writer who has yet to learn the nature of drama
tends to turn to these threadbare subjects for his story and I was no
exception. I don't think I knew a great deal about any of them. The
aircraft scenes were built up from my experience with the de Havilland
Company in its very earliest days. The character of Philip Stenning
derived from half a dozen pilots of that Company's Air Taxi service: in
those pioneering days of civil aviation pilots had to be tough.

In spite of its immaturity the book got good reviews. I think it sold
about 1,200 copies. In revising it for publication I have struck out a
few outmoded expressions, such as "topping" and "ripping", which I
suppose were current at that time, but I have made no other alterations.

                                                            Nevil Shute




                           THE SONS OF MARTHA


It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock,
It is their care that the gear engages, it is their care that the switches
  lock.
                                                               Rudyard
                                                                 Kipling.




                              CHAPTER ONE


It began in June. I was one of the pilots of the Rawdon Air Taxi Service
then; as everyone knows, a civilian pilot, like a dramatic critic, is
merely a young man who is too lazy to work for a living. I claim no
exception. I had nobody to think for but myself; in those circumstances
I didn't see that it mattered much how I earned my living so long as
there was plenty of it, and the work not too hard. Moreover, I was a
pretty good pilot in those days. I was thirty-two years old that June,
and making an income of just under a thousand a year for an average
two-hour day. I used to play Rugger for the Harlequins and was making
some progress with my golf, though I was never so near to the Amateur
Championship as I thought I was. For the rest, I had a small bachelor
flat off Maida Vale, and led about as dissolute a life as was consistent
with keeping reasonably fit.

I came down from Manchester that afternoon at the conclusion of a
photographic tour. It was a Wednesday, I remember, and a very hot day. I
flew all the way in my shirtsleeves with my arms bare to the elbow, and
without a helmet. Even so I was hot. The air was very bumpy so that we
had a rough trip; from time to time I would look back at the
photographer in the rear cockpit, white to the gills and retching and
heaving every time we hit a bad one. I wasn't sorry to see him like that
again; for a fortnight I had been cooped up with the wretched little man
in indifferent hotels. If the devil had flown away with him I could have
borne up under the blow, I think. Rather he than I.

We got to London at about three in the afternoon. There was thunder
about down there; great masses of cumulus were rolling up from every
point of the compass, heavy-looking and pink at the edges. It grew more
bumpy than ever. I wasn't at all sorry to be home; it had grown suddenly
cold, for one thing, and I wanted my coat. I had a thirst on me that I
wouldn't have sold for a fiver. I looked forward along the long bow of
the machine to the familiar hangars and the aerodrome as I put her on
the glide down to land; Collard had got his car out on the grass of the
aerodrome in front of the Pilots' Office and was tinkering with the
engine. To announce my arrival I opened out my engine again and dived on
the car; he looked up and waved an oilcan at me. I passed within a few
yards of him, zoomed up again and finished with an Immelmann turn at the
top for the sake of that wretched photographer. Then I throttled again,
came round in a wide sweep, side-slipped her in over the hedge, and put
down gently on the grass by the hangars.

I got out of the machine, cross and tired. I was as deaf as a post
through flying without a helmet, and I felt as though my eyes were full
of oil. I was shivering. The ground felt as heavy as lead. I'd had a
pretty thick night the night before. Annesley had turned up in
Manchester and had produced a couple of Flossies; before the night was
out we'd done Manchester pretty thoroughly--dealt faithfully with the
town. If there was a low dive in the place that we hadn't been in,
Annesley didn't know it.

I handed the machine over to the mechanics, swore at the photographer,
collected the log-books, got all my stuff out of the rear cockpit,
carried the lot across to the Pilots' Office and dumped it all on the
floor.

"Had a good trip?" asked Collard.

I told him in a low monotone, while I sorted out my stuff upon the floor
and put on a cardigan, what I really thought about my trip, Manchester,
the machine, and the photographer. He heard me to the end, and then--

"Been missing his Kruschens again," he observed. "What you want is a
holiday."

I stood up and let fly. "If you think I'm going to take a ruddy
holiday," I said, "just because Mr ruddy Collard thinks I want my
Kruschens, you're barking up a rocking-horse like the puppy." Then I saw
he'd got a Bass there, and I remembered I was thirsty. "Give that here,"
I said. "I'll show you what to do with that." There was a short struggle
before I put him on the ground and got it away from him; there was no
corkscrew and I cut my lip against the broken neck of the bottle.

While I was trying to stop the bleeding and thinking what a rotten world
it was, the office girl came down to the hut.

"Mr Morris wants to see you in his office, Captain Stenning," she said.

I mopped at my lip and turned to Collard. "If he wants me to do another
job of work today," I said, "he can go and--" but the child was there.
Then I followed her out of the hut and up through the works to the main
office.

I never really got to know Morris, though I quarrelled with him every
week. He was Chief Pilot and Technical Editor and Lord High Everything
Else in the Rawdon firm. He was one of those lean, saturnine fellows
that go about with an air of "I keep myself to myself, damn you." He was
a pretty good sort in his own way. A married man; he lived in a house
overlooking the aerodrome. I believe he married money.

I went into his office and found him at his desk. "Afternoon, Stenning,"
he said. "How d'you get on up north? I've got another job for you--want
you to take a machine down to Devonshire this evening."

"Damn it," I said. "I've only just come back."

He raised his head and looked at me like a corpse, so that I knew that
there was trouble coming.

"Well," he said quietly. "You're going away again."

It was poisonously hot. I could hear thunder rumbling in the distance,
but the rain still held off. The air was close and heavy in the office,
so that I was sweating and sorry I had put on my cardigan.

"I'm ruddy well not going away again today," I said. "I'll go first
thing tomorrow morning, if you like. At dawn."

"That won't do," he said. "You've got to start from there tomorrow
morning at dawn, to take the passenger first to Liverpool and then back
here. I'm sorry, but the machine's got to go down tonight."

I laughed shortly. "You're going to be unlucky," I said. "I've done
three and a half hours' flying today, and I'm tired. You work us too
hard, Morris. I'm fed up with it. Besides, you haven't got a machine to
send."

"You can take the one you've had up north," he said.

"You can leave me out of it," I replied hotly; "as for the machine,
she's due for overhaul in three hours' more flying time, and from what
you say this will be an eight hours' job. And the engine's running
rough--damn rough."

"Are you putting in a formal complaint about the engine?" he said.

The first drops of rain splashed heavily on the window-sill. I could see
that he was getting me into a corner, but couldn't for the life of me
see how to get out of it.

"No," I said. "It's no worse than some of the engines I've had to fly
since I've been here."

He disregarded that. "You can refuse this job on medical grounds if you
feel you aren't fit," he said. "In that case I shall take the machine
myself. You know that won't count against you."

"Damn it," I said sullenly, "you know I'm not as bad as that. But you
work us too hard, Morris--by God you do. It's going to be a perfectly
filthy evening for getting down west."

"If you call three and half hours' flying a day's work," he replied, "I
don't. But there it is. You can take it or leave it."

At that I lost my temper. "I'll take it," I said. "But you don't give us
a square deal, Morris. You don't play fair. I'll do the job--but I'll
tell you this much. I'll take the machine down empty, but if you wanted
me to carry passengers this evening I'd turn it down. Now that's
straight. Where have I got to go?"

He looked at me doubtfully for a moment. "Are you sure you're fit?" he
said.

"If I wasn't I should send in one of your ruddy pink forms," I said
irritably. "Come on. What have I got to do?"

He turned to the map on the wall. "You'll go to Westward Ho!" he said,
"and put down on the golf links for the night. And, for Heaven's sake,
keep off the greens."

I turned on him. "Damn it--you know it wasn't I who went over that
green."

"Didn't say it was," he replied. "What I said was--don't. The passenger
is Sir Arthur Bardsley, who is staying at Carew Hall, near Northam.
You'll report to him, or there may be a message at the club house for
you. In any case, I understand he wants to make a start soon after
dawn."

Well, that was that. I took my instructions, got my ticket, and stalked
out of the office in as vile a temper as any I've ever been in. I wasn't
particularly annoyed with Morris; one couldn't help liking the man, and
he certainly did work like a nigger to put the show on a dividend-paying
basis. No, oddly enough the man I really was annoyed with was Collard
for suggesting that I could do with a holiday. The worst of it was that
I knew that it was true. For a long time I had been burning the candle
at both ends to a greater extent than was altogether healthy, and lately
there had been warnings that I should have been a fool to disregard.

"Things can't go on like this," I muttered sullenly, as I walked down to
the Pilots' Office. At the same time, I didn't see any real reason why
they shouldn't.

I saw the foreman of the mechanics and told him to get the machine
filled up again, and then I telephoned for my tea. Then I went to look
at the oil, my latest venture. There is not much left now in France of
the stuff that was taken over there for the war, but Collard, having
occasion to land near some little French village that had been behind
the line, had discovered fifty barrels of (alleged) motor lubricating
oil mouldering in a pasture. I went into it with him, and we were
engaged in tentative negotiations for buying the lot at a price that
worked out at a little over a halfpenny a gallon. It certainly had the
viscosity of oil, but it was far too light in colour to attract a
purchaser; in these circumstances Collard was trying the effect of
various pigments in an endeavour to turn it into such a colourable
imitation of good oil as to catch some poor simp up from the country and
sting him for at least a shilling a gallon. After all, in most motor-car
engines the function of the oil is to wash the heat away from the
bearings, and for that this oil would probably do as well as any other
liquid.

There was a little pan of it there. I dipped my finger in the oil and
drew a little picture on the wall in the style that Collard finds
amusing. I laughed at it myself, then went out on to the aerodrome and
found the rugger ball and started punting it about in the rain. Then my
tea came. By the time I'd finished that, a mechanic was in the hut to
tell me that the machine was ready; I told him to get her started up and
began to look for my leather coat.

By the time I was togged up it was half past four; I had none too long
if I was to get my job done before dark. The flight down there would
take me over three hours against the stiff westerly wind; after that I
should have to find a car and drive it to Bideford to collect fifty
gallons or so of petrol, return to the links and fill up the machine.
Besides that I should have to report myself at Carew Hall and find
myself something to eat and--if the gods were kind--a bed. It was still
raining in buckets; the clouds had thickened up and come lower and the
barograph showed the glass dropping a little bit--not much. It looked
perfectly beastly outside; in any other circumstances I would have put
off starting for half an hour. There was none too much time, however,
and I felt that, having indulged in the luxury of speaking my mind to
Morris, it was up to me to carry the job through without quibbling. So I
started.

I felt better when I was in the machine. The rain and the wind had
cooled the air and freshened up things a bit. I ran the engine up, waved
the chocks away, and moved over to the lee hedge to take off. I have
been flying for over ten years and one would expect by now to be getting
a little stale, a little tired of it. Yet as I swung her round into the
wind that day in the rain and saw the aerodrome stretching away in front
of me, misty and very wide, I felt as strongly as ever the queer
indescribable charm of this piloting, the feeling that I should never
entirely give it up.

At the same time, I knew that I was very tired.

Then I opened her up and went rolling over the grass and into the air. I
never waste much time in getting on my course; ten feet up I swung her
round through forty degrees with one wing tip steadily balanced eighteen
inches above the grass. Before I was out of the aerodrome I was on my
course and climbing steadily as I headed just about due west.

I didn't climb far before I hit the clouds. They were down to six
hundred feet or so; I went trundling out over Buckinghamshire at about
that height and wished I was in the Long Bar of the Troc, as I might
have been but for Morris. Cross-country flying at any time is boring;
cross-country flying in the rain can be perfectly devilish. Sometimes I
while away the time by writing letters in pencil on a block strapped to
my knee, and in a machine with a good windscreen one can always smoke.
But in the rain when the clouds force one down to within five hundred
feet of the ground one must keep so much on the alert for a possible
forced landing that letter-writing becomes impossible. And a cigarette
gets wet and comes to pieces in the wind.

All went well as far as High Wycombe, though the clouds were gradually
forcing me lower, so that by the time I was over the town I was down to
three hundred feet. I could see the Chilterns ahead of me; it proves how
low I was that I could distinctly mark the rise of the ground by
Dashwood Hill. The clouds seemed to be sitting right down on top of the
hills; for a moment I hesitated, and thought of turning away south and
following the line of the hills till I hit the Thames and the railway at
the Pangbourne Gap. But it was out of my direct course and time was
short enough as it was; I could tell by my time to High Wycombe that
there must be a stiff southwesterly wind against me. Looking back upon
that decision now, I can hardly realize the effect that it had upon my
life. As it was, I looked at my watch, swore, and went on.

I came to the hills about three miles south of the Oxford road. The rain
had eased off to a drizzle, but the clouds hung so low upon the hills
that I was forced down to within a hundred feet of the treetops. Even at
that I was flying through wisps of cloud so thick that I could only see
the ground immediately below me. The air was terribly bumpy.

Then there came to me what I suppose comes to every pilot sooner or
later, whether he be good or bad. The sweet, rhythmic drone of the
engine faltered. There was a moment's screaming, and in an instant the
whole bag of tricks had gone to glory and was shaking the machine as a
terrier shakes a rat. At the first hint of trouble I had jerked back the
throttle, a stream of boiling water came spurting down the fuselage and
over the windscreen, and I sat dithering at every leap of the engine and
wondering if it was going to stay in the fuselage or tear away the
bearers and fall out. I had seen that happen once. The machine came down
like a falling leaf, turning over and over so fast that the pilot must
have been unconscious long before he hit the ground.

In a second or two the vibration began to die away; I swung the machine
round in an S turn back on my tracks. Immediately below me there was a
small field in the middle of the woods, or rather two fields divided by
an iron railing that ran across the middle. It was an impossible place
for a landing; a field that nobody in his senses would dream of trying
to put down in under normal circumstances. As the matter stood, however,
and at the height I was, it was either the field or the treetops. I
chose the field.

I made a mistake there, though in equal circumstances I think I should
probably do the same again. When I was an instructor, I used to put that
very case to my pupils; I had a little speech that I used to make to
them. In case of doubt, I used to say, choose the trees, because they're
soft. If you put down on the treetops, I would say, you won't hurt
yourself and the machine may be repairable. If you stall in trying to
get into the little field beyond the trees the machine will be a
write-off and you'll probably be dead.

That's what I used to tell my pupils. In the event, though, one can
never overcome a natural reluctance to crashing the machine. If there is
a possible chance of getting down undamaged one will always take it, no
matter what the risk. Before I fully realized what I was doing I had
swung round and was judging my distance for the final turn that would
bring me close over the railings into the larger of the two little
fields.

I still think that if I had been myself I might have pulled it off. But
I was tired; I had flown round the Midlands on photographic work that
morning, and then down from Manchester. And Manchester itself--well, I
suppose Manchester had something to do with it too. Certainly I made a
mess of that forced landing. It was a bad show. I missed the railing by
four feet instead of four inches, at a speed of fifty miles an hour
instead of forty-two. After that I hadn't a chance. We were nearly into
the far hedge and the wood before I could put her on the ground. I swung
her round violently in an attempt to miss the wood. She rose from the
ground again, cart-wheeled over on one wing tip, and fell heavily on her
back.

I can't say that I have a very clear recollection of what happened
during the next ten minutes. I was conscious for most of the time, I
think, but my memory of the incidents has become blurred with pain. I
wasn't strapped in, and as she went over I grabbed at my seat to prevent
myself from being thrown out. As it was, I was chucked half out of the
cockpit and crashed my head down on to the padded edge of the instrument
board. Then the machine turned right over on her back, and the ground
came up and pushed me back into the cockpit again upside-down. I
remember a keen, agonizing pain in my neck, and then I think I went off
for a little. Very likely I was stunned.

I came to myself pretty soon, however. Petrol was running over the seat
of my trousers and soaking through my clothes up to my waist; I think it
was the cold of it that revived me. I was crammed into the cockpit
upside-down, with my shoulders in the grass; I was pretty far gone, I
suppose. I remember wondering how soon it would be before anyone found
the machine, or if anyone had seen us come down. I knew that I wasn't
going to last long in that position.

It was evident that if I was to get out I must act quickly, before I
became unconscious again. I could feel the weight of the machine
pressing me down into the grass. I got one arm free above my head,
summoned all my energy, and with a violent heave managed to lift the
machine a little. The movement dislodged my weight; my legs fell down in
the cockpit and my body shifted sideways; the machine lurched a little
and collapsed on to me again, pinning me in the cockpit.

Then I got my feet drawn up against the floor of the cockpit and tried
to raise the machine that way. Again I raised her a little, and again
she seemed to hesitate, swung, and collapsed on me again.

That was my last effort. In the new position I could not use either hand
to free myself; if I had had the full use of my hands, though, I doubt
if I could have got out. The thundering in my head grew terrific.

That, so far as I was concerned, was the end.

I think it was the pain in my neck that roused me again, that and the
change of position as I rolled out of the cockpit on to the grass like a
hermit crab when you touch the end of his shell with a cigarette.
Somebody had lifted the tail of the machine and, there being nothing to
hold me in the cockpit, I had tumbled out on to the grass. I lay where I
had rolled; I couldn't move, and at first I couldn't see. Then I began
to pick up my surroundings, the woods and the hurrying clouds racing
past above. At last somebody came and rolled me over and unfastened my
helmet and my collar, and began feeling me all over for broken bones.

Finally, I sat up and discovered that apart from the necessity of
holding my head on with both hands I had come out of it with very little
damage. I tried to get up without letting go of my head, and started
falling about like a puppy.

"I'd take it easily for a bit if I were you," said somebody.

I turned painfully towards the voice. "I must have done it a bit of no
good," I said vaguely. "Is the machine a write-off?" And then I managed
to look at him.

"Good God!" I said weakly.

He wasn't a bad-looking fellow but for his clothes; a slight,
dark-haired man of about my own age. As for the clothes, I've never
happened to wear them myself because--for some obscure social
reason--when I did my month it was in the second division.

I never really regretted that month. For one thing, the importance of a
term of imprisonment depends entirely on the circle in which one moves,
and my circle was never exalted. Moreover, I think it was worth it. It
came as the result of a very pleasant little evening after a show at one
of those places in Jermyn Street; there were about half a dozen of us
there, all pilots. It was one of the best little suppers I've ever been
at. Everyone was comfortably full but nobody made a pig of himself; it
was funny without being vulgar, and this much I can truthfully say, that
none of the girls went home next morning any worse than when they came.

At about two in the morning Maddison and I got restive; it seemed to us
that an obstacle race in cars would provide a little excitement for the
ladies. His car was some old racing chassis into which he had fitted a
three-hundred-horse-power German Maybach that he had snaffled off some
aeronautical scrap-heap, and he was very proud of it. Mine was nothing
like that, but I was pretty sure that I could give him fits when it came
to dodging round the lamp-posts. So we started from Jermyn Street.

I'll admit that we were pretty far gone, because I can't remember that
we even fixed up a course to race. I had one of the Flossies with me in
my two-seater. I forget her name, but she had a bag of oranges in her
lap, and whenever she saw a pretty lady she threw an orange at
her--whether from fellow-feeling or superiority I was unable to
determine. For myself, I was very happy. I had one fixed idea running in
my head: that I must on no account run over anyone, because then, as I
explained to the Flossie as we shot down Haymarket, I should not only be
drunk in charge of a motor-car, but drunk in charge of a manslaughter. I
remember impressing on her that this was an epigram.

I am a little hazy as to exactly where we went. I remember a furious
game of touch-last at the bottom of Whitehall which had to be abandoned
for fear of running over the policemen who were trying to get on our
running-boards, and I remember telling the Flossie as much as I could
recollect of the Secret History of the Court of Berlin as we went round
and round the Queen Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace. I
think we got into Piccadilly by St. James's Street, because it was in
Air Street that we met our doom. I spun in here to get to Regent Street,
meaning to go up and have a look at Madame Tussaud's. But there was a
taxi in Air Street that impeded my cornering; I did the best I could,
braked heavily, ran up on to the pavement, and impinged upon a
lamp-post. Maddison, following close behind me, ran into my stern
and--there the police found us.

I am not very clear about the proceedings at Vine Street. I imagine
they were purely formal; I know they let the Flossies go after a bit,
but Maddison and me they popped into the cells for the night. I
decided then that it was time I pulled myself together; a little cold
water and a cup of black coffee that they got me made a new man of me,
and by the end of half an hour I had decided that my best line was to
plead guilty. Maddison was worse than I. I could hear him in the next
cell entertaining with song a small, discreet audience of constables
in the passage. He was telling them all about the Yogo Pogo, I think,
and I remember that he was particularly insistent on the fact that

    _The Lord Mayor of London,_
    _The Lord Mayor of London,_
    _The Lord Mayor of London wants to put him
         in the Lord Mayor's Show._

Since then I have often wondered about the Yogo Pogo, but I never
learned any more. For myself, I went to bed and slept soundly till
they came to call me.

Now the sequel to this had certain elements of humour. I hadn't a chance
to speak to Maddison till they stood us up together in court. The
magistrate asked me first what I pleaded, and I said that I pleaded
guilty and would accept the findings of the court.

Maddison kicked me on the shins, pleaded not guilty, asked for a remand,
and was taken away.

A policeman got up and said that my car mounted the pavement. Apparently
that set the fashion, because in a minute everyone was saying that my
car had mounted the pavement. It was evidently a far graver offence to
mount the pavement than to run into the taxi. In fact, that was about
all the evidence there was. In extenuation I said that I might have been
a little excited, but I was very far from being incapable of driving a
motor-car. I pointed out that I hadn't endangered anyone but myself. The
magistrate said I had endangered the policemen who were trying to get on
my running-board. I said that wasn't my fault, and got sternly rebuked.
Then they asked me how much I had had to drink. I asked: Since when? and
that didn't do me any good. They said, since six o'clock the evening
before. I could see that it was hopeless by that time, so I gave them
the account in chronological order so far as I could remember--two
cocktails, half a bottle of sherry, about a third of a magnum, a glass
of port, six whiskies (during the intervals of the theatre), another
half-bottle of champagne (at supper), and after supper a few more
whiskies. That finished it. The magistrate told me that he greatly
regretted that his powers were limited to a sentence of one month in the
second division, and they took me away to Brixton.

Maddison, on the other hand, retained Eminent Counsel for his defence at
a perfectly incredible fee, and got off. Maddison was never very bright
at the best of times. With a touching faith in the integrity of the Law
he paid Eminent Counsel to get him off and gave him a free hand. The
result was perfectly appalling. Eminent Counsel started away back in
1915 and took the court through every little crash Maddison had had in
ten years' flying. He must have been a pretty dud pupil; we heard that
he wrote off two machines in 1915, three in 1916, and two more later in
the war. Eminent Counsel was a little hard up for post-war crashes to
account for Maddison's mental state, but he made such play with the
material at his disposal that by the time he'd finished Maddison was a
clear case for detention during His Majesty's pleasure and the Bench
were inquiring how it was that the prisoner was apparently licensed to
carry passengers in aeroplanes for hire or reward. At that point Eminent
Counsel began to hedge a little. Maddison got off, but the evening
papers made such play with him that the Air Ministry had to cancel his
licence. That was a pity, because he was quite a good pilot.

The Air Ministry had a smack at me when I came out, but nothing like
such a hard smack as that. The firm looked a bit old-fashioned at me,
too; I didn't really blame them. They were all good sorts, though, and I
think each of them felt secretly that it was up to somebody who had
never happened to be drunk in charge of a motor-car to cast the first
stone. In a month it had all blown over.

But all this is a digression. I sat on the ground in the rain for a bit
and looked at the convict, and the convict looked at me.

"What the devil are you doing here?" I said.

I noticed that he was keeping his eyes open for anyone that might be
coming to have a look at the machine. He didn't seem to have heard me; I
spoke to him again.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

He looked down at me as I sat on the ground, and smiled at me vaguely.

"What a damn silly question!" he said gently. "I'm looking for the
Philosopher's Stone; or--the Tree of Knowledge. One should have learned
the difference between Good and Evil by this time, though, don't you
think?" His voice drifted away into silence. "But I doubt if it grows in
this wood...." He roused himself. "I don't think you're much hurt."

I blinked at him. "You'd better get back into that wood and go on
looking for it, pretty damn quick," I said. "There'll be people here in
a minute." It was a wonder the crowd had not arrived already.

He nodded. "Perhaps that would be wisest," he said reflectively. I
noticed that he spoke like an educated man. "Are you sure you'll be all
right now? That's good." He moved towards the trees.

"Half a minute," I said weakly. "What about you?" I tried painfully hard
to collect my wits. "Do you want any help--is there anything I can do?"

He asked me if I meant it.

There was a sort of wheel and ratchet going round inside my head and I
was feeling very sick. I wasn't at all sure that I did mean it; at the
moment I hadn't enough go left in me to pull a sprat off a gridiron. I
climbed slowly to my feet and stood there swaying gently in the breeze;
he ran up and caught hold of my arm to steady me.

My head began to clear a little. "Of course I mean it," I muttered. "One
thing I ... one thing. What did they get you for?"

He looked at me in a way that made me feel pretty rotten for having
asked.

"Embezzlement," he said shortly.

I planted my feet farther apart on the grass and found it an assistance.
"Well, that's a good clean sort of crime," I said vaguely. "So long as
it wasn't anything to do with dope or children...." I pulled myself up;
I was beginning to ramble.

But he looked at me curiously. "You don't like dope?" he said.

I made an effort and pulled myself together a little. "Get back into the
hedge and don't stand talking in the middle of this field like a ruddy
fool," I said. He scuttled back to the edge of the wood. "Now see here,"
I said, "I'll do whatever I can to help you get away. I owe you that.
What is it you want--food and clothes? Do you want to get out of
England?"

He looked at me suspiciously. "You're not going to give me up?"

I told him to talk sense. "For one thing," I said, "I could give you
away now without bothering to get you into a trap, simply by going away
and telling people that I'd seen you here. But here I am. I'll do what I
can for you if you'll let me, or if you don't want any help I'll go away
and forget I've seen you. Now that's square."

He motioned to me to come close; he seemed suddenly afraid. "It's most
frightfully good of you," he said, "and I do want a bit of help. It's a
thing that you can do quite easily, without any risk to yourself.
There's a house about four miles from here on the other side of
Stokenchurch. The house is called Six Firs. It's not my home--I daren't
go near home. They'll be on the look-out for me there. But there's a
cousin of mine lives with her people in this house--a girl, oh, a damn
good sort. She'll fix me up if she knows I'm here. Go to the house and
get hold of her, and tell her. Don't let her people know--they're too
old. Tell her I'll be outside the house from eleven o'clock onwards.
Tell her to leave the morning-room window open and to switch on the
light in her bedroom when it's safe for me to come in."

"She won't believe me if I go and tell her that," I said. "No girl
would. She'd think I was trying it on."

He gripped me by the arm. "You've got to make her believe," he said.
"You've got to--you simply must. I must see her--she may have heard--she
may know something. Man, I tell you, I've got to be free for the next
ten days. After that.... But she may know what's happening."

He was becoming rapidly incoherent. I freed myself gently from his grip
on my arm.

"I'll do the best I can," I said. "Six Firs, at eleven o'clock, with a
light in her bedroom window. By the way, what's her name?"

"Stevenson," he said, "Joan Stevenson. My name is Compton."

"Right you are," I said. "I'll go there and do the best I can. And see
here--if I can't convince her I'll be near the gate myself at eleven
o'clock tonight. Now you'd better cut off into cover."

He turned and ran into the wood through the trees till he was out of
sight. I noticed that he ran with a limp.

Well, there I was--and the devil of a fine position to be in, too. I
turned and walked unsteadily towards the machine. She was in a shocking
mess. I looked first at the engine. One of the connecting-rods had poked
its way through the side of the crankcase and made a hole big enough to
put my head into; through the hole one could see the mincemeat inside. I
judged the machine to be a complete write-off; the port wings crumpled
up and the fuselage badly injured close behind the engine. It was the
worst crash I had had since the war.

I stood looking at it all for a minute, and it struck me that I was very
lucky to have got out of it alive. It was now a quarter of an hour or
more since it had happened, and nobody had arrived in the field. And
then I thought that if Compton had not turned up I should still have
been in the machine, pinned upside down, unconscious and dying--if not
already dead. The thought of it fairly made me sweat with fright.

I was feeling much better by now. My neck had had a beastly wrench, but
I could walk without holding on to it, and apart from that I was hardly
hurt. I left the machine and began to walk along the edge of the wood in
the direction of Stokenchurch. In all the half-mile that I walked
through the fields to the road I never saw a soul. It was evident that
nobody had seen me come down; that wasn't difficult to understand,
because it was a brute of an evening and I had been flying very low
above the trees, half hidden in the clouds. As I went on through the
fields and met nobody I realized that I owed my life to this fellow
Compton. I don't imagine that my life is worth much or that I've ever
done much good with it; at the same time--it's all one has. And then as
I walked on I knew that it was up to me to see this business through to
the end and to back Compton in every way I could--even if it were to
mean another spell in quod for me. Looking back now over the years I'm
glad to be able to remember that I stuck to that decision, and backed
him till he had no further need of me.

I went on, and presently I came to a road. A little way along it I met a
Ford van delivering groceries to some outlying village. I stopped it and
asked the boy for a lift in to Stokenchurch. He stammered and looked at
me as if I was a ghost, said something in refusal, and tried to drive
on. I jumped on to the running-board, leaned in over the wheel, and soon
put a stop to that. And then I realized that appearances were against
me. The hand that I switched off his engine with was covered in blood
and oil; I had no hat and I could feel that something had happened to my
hair. I discovered later that there was a deep cut over my right eyebrow
that had bled all down the side of my face; it was drying now and my
hair was all stuck up with blood on my forehead. I had been feeling so
generally ill that I hadn't noticed it.

I told the boy what had happened. When I got him to believe me, his one
idea was to go off and have a look at the machine. I told him I was
going into Stokenchurch in his Ford whether he drove me or not. He
perked up a bit at that, but I pretty soon unperked him, and at last we
got going on the road to Stokenchurch.

We got to Stokenchurch at about half past five. I went straight to the
inn, postponed giving an account of myself and got on the telephone to
Morris, while the crowd fluttered about outside and peeped in at me
through the door of the room.

I told him what had happened. "I hadn't an earthly," I said. "The clouds
were right down on to the hills I was only a hundred feet up when the
engine conked. I told you it was running rough. What? Oh, yes, the
machine's a write-off--absolutely, I'm afraid. What's that? Well, I
can't say that it worries _me_ much--only too glad to be well out of it.
I don't give a damn about the machine. Yes, I dare say you do, but
that's your worry. Oh, nothing to write home about, thanks. I got shaken
up a bit and cut my eyebrow--nothing serious. I'm sorry it's happened,
but I'm not taking any responsibility for it at all. I told you I wasn't
fit to go. As a matter of fact, fit or not, it wouldn't have made any
difference to what happened." Which was a lie.

Rather to my surprise he said he was sending down the breakdown gang at
once, and told me to fix up a meal for them. I rang off, and immediately
found myself the sensation of the evening. I should think half the
village crowded into the passages of the pub, all eager to see me and
condole before I had my face washed. I managed to get away from the
crowd, and the landlord's wife took me upstairs and bathed my eyebrow
for me; I would have preferred the barmaid, but didn't like to say so.
It was a clean cut and she made quite a good job of it for me, fixing it
up with a bit of lint and sticking-plaster. Then I went down and saw the
landlord and arranged about a meal for the mechanics over a stiff
whisky.

Presently I began to throw out feelers about the Stevensons, and the
house called Six Firs.

I said that I thought I knew some people called Stevenson who lived near
Stokenchurch; at least, I knew of them but had never met them. He said
that they would be the people at Six Firs. I was told that the house was
about a mile from the village; with a little encouragement he told me
the whole family history--so far as there was anything to tell. Arthur
Stevenson, Esq., CB, was a man of about seventy, several years retired
from the Treasury. His wife was only a little younger, and both were
passionately fond of gardening. They always took first prize for
sweet-peas at the local flower show. Before moving to Stokenchurch on
their retirement they had lived for thirty years in Earl's Court. Their
pew in church was close under the pulpit because the old lady was
getting very deaf. There was a son in India, a major in the Indian Army.
There was a daughter about twenty-five years old who lived at home and
painted pictures--water colours, I gathered--which had been exhibited at
High Wycombe. They had a Morris Cowley which the daughter drove. The
barmaid had a cousin who was their cook. That was all.

I said that my father had been at school with old Mr Stevenson, and I
thought that I would walk up and call on them. He offered to send a boy
with me to show me the house, but I got out of that and got directions
instead. I borrowed one of his hats, and set off up the street.

As I went I realized the utter futility of the whole thing. It was
impossible that such a household should shelter an escaped convict. It
struck me at once that it wasn't fair on the old people; at all costs
they must be kept out of it. It was evident that if there was any help
at all coming from that house it must come from the girl; I can't say
that I was too sanguine about her. From the landlord's description she
sounded a blue-stocking of the most virulent description; it seemed to
me that water-colours and escaped convicts were unlikely to go well
together. Evidently I must try the house, but I thought it was more
probable that Compton would have to stay in the woods for a day or two
till I could get some clothes for him and smuggle him away.

As I drew nearer to the house I began to wonder how I should get hold of
the girl without her parents. A succession of ideas passed through my
head and were rejected one by one. I might say that I was soliciting
custom for a projected milk round--but that wouldn't work in the
country. Nor would the gas-meter do, where there was probably no gas.
Finally, I fixed on the car as being the one thing in the house that
would be solely the domain of the daughter, and decided to make that my
line of attack.

The house was a pleasant-looking place on the wooded side of a hill,
standing well back from the road in three or four acres of land. It was
not a large house, but it was beautifully cared for; the gardens were
small, but very neat. There was a large paddock with a decrepit-looking
pony in it. It was about seven o'clock when I got there; the rain had
stopped and the clouds were clearing off before the sunset. The garden
smelt wonderful after the rain.

I rang the bell and a maid came to the door. "Can I see Miss Stevenson?"
I said. "It's about the car--I'm from the garage."

The maid went in and a girl came to the door. She must have been in the
hall.

"It's about the car?" she said. "You've come from Weller's?"

That was the first time I met Joan Stevenson. I wish I could recall that
first interview a little more clearly. She was a tall slim girl with
grey eyes, by her complexion a country girl, rather plain and--which
seemed strange to me--without a trace of powder or make-up. She had very
soft brown hair, bobbed; she was wearing a brown jumper, a skirt that
looked like corduroy, and brown brogues. She looked me straight in the
eyes when she spoke, which worried me and made me nervous.

I produced a jet from my waistcoat pocket. "It's about the carburettor
on your car, Miss," I said. "The makers sent a letter round to us agents
to say as some cars was issued from the factory wiv jets as gives
trouble in the morning, starting from cold, like. They was to be
replaced without charge. So as I was passing along this evening the
manager told me to look in."

"It's very good of him," said the girl, "but she's always been very easy
to start. Beautiful." I could see that she was puzzled.

"Could I just 'ave a look at her," I said, "if it won't be
inconveniencing? 'Course, if she's going all right, I says leave well
alone. There's a sight more damage done messing them about than what
there is leaving them alone. But if I might look to see what number jet
she has got in, an' then I can tell the boss."

She took me round to the back of the house, and there was the car
standing in the coach-house with the doors open. We went into the
coach-house, but I didn't open the bonnet of the car. Instead, I
straightened myself up.

"Miss Stevenson," I said, "I haven't come about the car. I've come about
your cousin, Compton--I don't know his other name. He sent me here to
see you. He wants help."

She looked at me incredulously. "He sent you here?" she repeated.

"I saw him this afternoon," I said. "I'm afraid he's in trouble. He
broke prison apparently--he's been in prison, hasn't he? He's in the
woods close here, and he wants help to get a change of clothes and get
away."

"Who are you?" she asked.

I could see that this interview wasn't going at all well. I didn't see
what else I could do but to plough ahead and tell her exactly what had
happened; if then she chose to disbelieve it I should have done my best.
"My name is Stenning," I said. "Philip Stenning." I set out to tell her
all that had happened to me that afternoon. When I got to the bit about
Compton coming out of the wood and pulling me out of the machine she
stopped me.

"I'm sorry, Mr Stenning," she said, "but I don't believe a word of all
this. It's quite true that my cousin is in prison, but I don't believe a
word of the rest of it. You shouldn't have brought in the aeroplane, you
know; it's laying it on a bit too thick. As a matter of curiosity, what
were you going to ask me to do?"

I laughed; it was the only thing to do. "For one thing," I said, "I was
going to ask you to believe me. I was going to ask you to put out food
and clothes for your cousin in the morning-room at about eleven o'clock
tonight after your people have gone to bed, and to leave the
morning-room window open and to switch on the light in your bedroom when
the coast was clear. But I'm afraid you'll find that as melodramatic as
the aeroplane."

She smiled gravely. "I'm afraid I do, Mr Stenning. Much too sensational.
Now I'm going to go down to the police station tomorrow morning and tell
them all about you, so you'd better run away back to London tonight.
It's an ingenious tale and for the moment you very nearly took me in,
but you spoilt it by bringing in the aeroplane. You wouldn't have got
very much out of this house, though. There's only the silver forks and
things and I don't think they're worth very much. We shall have to put
them in the dog-kennel or somewhere tonight, shan't we? Now you'd better
go."

"Right you are," I said. "You can go to the police station, and they'll
probably tell you who I am. But, for God's sake don't tell them anything
about your cousin being out in the woods, because he'll have to stay
there for tomorrow till I can get him some clothes. So if you go telling
the police where he is there'll be hell to pay."

She wrinkled her forehead in perplexity, but before she could speak I
stopped her.

"Look here, Miss Stevenson," I said, "I know you don't believe me. But
walk down to the village after dinner and collect the local gossip. I
promise you that you'll find that an aeroplane crashed this afternoon,
and that I'm the pilot. If you find that's true you can take a chance on
the rest of the yarn. If you leave the morning-room window open and hide
behind the curtains with the morning room poker you can hit him on the
head as he comes in and examine him at your leisure. I promise you
you'll find he's your cousin."

She looked at me seriously. "If I find that's true," she said, "we may
owe you a great deal, Mr Stenning. But my cousin has only six months of
his sentence left to run."

"Then he must have a pretty good reason for wanting to be out," I said.
"Well, we'll leave it at that, Miss Stevenson."

I walked back through the lanes to the village. It was a wonderfully
quiet evening; the clouds and the storm were rolling away towards the
east and the sunset was clear. The birds had come out again, and I
remember there was a thrush calling somewhere in the trees. It was a
long time since I had been in the country. It was time I took a holiday.
I thought of the aerodrome and the machines and Manchester and my flat
in Maida Vale, and the more I thought of them the more I hated them. I
thought what a fool I was to live that sort of life. I didn't want to go
back.

When I got back to the pub I found the local constable waiting for me to
give account of myself; he seemed a little hurt that I had not come to
do so of my own accord. I was a bit short with him till I remembered
that this case was probably the most important that he had had to deal
with for six months; then I loosened up and stood him a drink. By the
time that had gone down the lorry had arrived with the breakdown gang.

I went out and had a chat with the foreman of the men; he clucked his
tongue when he heard what had happened, and opined that I was lucky to
have come off so lightly with nobody there to help me out of the
machine. I passed that off without a blush and hoped that his practised
eye would not betray me when we came to the wreck, and then, though it
was after eight o'clock, we went off in the lorry to get the machine. We
found her as I had left her, lying on her back by the wood surrounded by
a crowd of yokels. The ground was hard, being summer, so that we could
get the lorry right up to her; the foreman clucked his tongue some more
and set the men to work. An aeroplane comes to pieces very easily. In
twenty minutes the wings and the tail were off and we were loading the
fuselage on to the lorry; in an hour and half we were back in
Stokenchurch just as it was getting dark.

We passed Joan Stevenson in the village street. I stopped the lorry,
jumped down clumsily in my heavy coat, and went to speak to her. I
pointed to the wreckage.

"There it is," I laughed. "I was just bringing it along to show you."

In the dusk I could see that her face was very white. I sent the lorry
on, and it rumbled away into the distance with the mechanics all telling
each other that the captain was a quick worker.

"It's terrible," she whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't believe you when
you told me this afternoon, Mr Stenning. What are we to do? Where is he
now?"

"He's in the woods," I said. "I really don't know what we can do. He'll
know what he wants to do, though."

She nodded. "He'll want clothes, won't he? I found some old clothes of
father's that he'll never miss. They'll be a terrible fit. Father's so
much fatter."

"We must get him something that looks as if it belongs to him," I
muttered, "or he'll be caught at once. He'd better have this suit of
mine till we can fit him out properly. We're very much the same build."

She looked me up and down. "You're much broader across the shoulders
than he is," she said, "but the height is about right. But what's it all
for? Where's he going to go?"

"God knows," I muttered.

"How do you think he got here from Dartmoor?"

I started. "He was in Dartmoor? He must have had luck to get all this
distance." And then I remembered that I had seen a headline in the
morning paper over my breakfast at Manchester--a meagre and a sour
breakfast it had been that morning--that a prisoner had escaped and was
still at large. I remembered that I had commented on it to the
photographer, and had wished him luck. I almost wished now that I
hadn't.

"I saw it in the paper this morning," I said. "We shall have to be
careful."

"I know," she said. "I'll have the window open tonight as soon as it's
safe. Mr Stenning--will you come too? I don't know anything about these
things. Would it be frightfully inconvenient for you?"

I laughed. "Not a bit," I said. "I should have been a stiff little
corpse by now but for him--and nobody any the wiser."

"It's awfully good of you," she said. "He'll have to get out of the
country, won't he?"

"I don't know," I said. "He said he only wanted to be free for ten days.
But I'll come up this evening and we can have a talk with him and find
out what it is that he wants us to do. I'll be skulking round outside
till I see him get in at the window, and then I'll come along. That way,
you'll know I'm not playing any funny business on you. Right you are,
Miss Stevenson--at about eleven o'clock."

"It's awfully good of you," she repeated mechanically. She hesitated for
a moment. "I don't want to tell my father or mother if we can help it,"
she said. "We mustn't bring them into this unless it's absolutely
necessary."

I went back to the pub. The men were in the commercial room, busy over
the meal that I had ordered for them. They didn't wait long; they were
anxious to get back with the machine to the aerodrome, and so to bed.
They grumbled a good deal over the journey, but it appeared that Morris
was eager to get the machine back into the works and start on the
repair. I wished him joy of it.

I started with them on the lorry. The landlord showed some concern at my
departure; I think he was counting on me to stay the night and fight my
battles over again in the bar. However, we all crowded on to the lorry
in the darkness and pushed off, not without a little song and dance from
the men.

Half a mile from the village I stopped the lorry and got down, and the
lorry drove on towards London without me. I never heard what the men
thought about it, but I doubt if this proceeding did my reputation any
harm. That was hardly possible.

It was then about half past ten, and quite dark, I fetched a compass
round the outskirts of the village through the fields, and presently
found myself on the road for Six Firs.

It was beginning to feel more frightfully rocky. During the early part
of the evening I had been almost myself; I think the whisky I was
drinking then had something to do with it. Now the cut in my forehead
had stiffened up and was aching and throbbing till I could hardly bear
it; it was the only thing that prevented me from sitting down under a
hedge and going to sleep. I was most fearfully done. I walked up to the
house and got there at about ten minutes to eleven; a hundred yards up
the lane from the gate I found a gap in the hedge. I got through this
into the field and, skirting along the hedge, reached a position where I
could command a view of the whole front of the house.

I sat down on a hummock in the darkness and began drowsily to consider
what would be the best thing to be done for Compton. All the little
noises of a country night in June conspired to take my mind from the
problem and to increase my drowsiness. Somewhere there was an owl
hooting irregularly; the air was full of little rustlings and squeaks. I
sat there till my head dropped forward and I awoke with a start; then I
got up and began to walk up and down the field. The lights were still on
in the house. Then as I looked again one of the lights in the downstairs
rooms went out, and then all the others. A light appeared in an upstairs
room; I interpreted that to mean that the old couple were going to bed.

I began to wonder what I should do if I were in Compton's place and had
to cut the country without undue ostentation. I knew the answer to that
at once. I would do it on a small yacht. For many years it has been my
hobby to knock about the Channel whenever I had the chance; I owned a
six-tonner of my own one season in partnership with another man, but for
the most part my experience has been gained on charters.

I knew the Channel pretty well. I was convinced that one could slip
quietly in and out of England in that way without anybody being any the
wiser. Now that the coastguard has been practically abolished there is
very little restraint or comment on the movements of small yachts. One
goes over to France and cruises the French coast for a time; on one's
return to England one may invite the local Customs officer on board by
flying an ensign at the truck. Or one may simply join the throng of
yachts cruising up and down the coast; it is nobody's business to
discover in what country the anchor last bit the mud.

Yes, I decided, that is what I would do. It would need a little
organization; one would have to have a suitable boat ready and, if
possible, get someone to provision her. Then it struck me that there is
little advantage to be gained in these days by escaping from one country
to another unless it be to one where there is no extradition. Still, it
would be a step in the right direction to get as far as France. And
rather than begin on a ten-year sentence I would push off for South
America in a decent ten-tonner, though I won't pretend that my
seamanship is in the same street as that of Captain Joshua Slocum.

I moved up closer to the garden hedge and began to study the house
intently. There were no lights showing now. I remember that I was very
cold. I thought I could see that one of the windows of the morning-room
was open; for what seemed an interminable time I stood leaning on the
hedge, listening to the noises of the night, watching the house.

Presently a light flashed on in one of the upper windows, and almost at
the same moment I saw Compton. He was standing on the lawn in the shadow
of a clump of laurels; I saw him move silently across the grass and
vanish into the shadow by the window.

I sighed with relief. The main part of my job was over; from now onwards
I should be acting in a purely advisory capacity. I think I really
believed that at the moment. As I have said, I was most frightfully
tired.

I waited for a few minutes, then got through the hedge and crossed the
lawn to the house. There was somebody standing at the unlighted window;
as I drew near I saw it was Joan Stevenson.

"Mr Stenning," she whispered.

I got into the house through the window. It was then about twenty
minutes past eleven.




                              CHAPTER TWO


As soon as I got into the morning-room I made straight for the
anthracite stove; I was nearly perished with cold from hanging about
outside, though it was June. For some reason connected with the old
man's health a stove was kept burning in this room all through the
summer; they had not turned on a light but had made up the stove to such
an extent that it threw a warm glow all over the room. Compton was
sitting on a chair in front of the stove clad only in a shirt, and
pulling on a pair of very large grey flannel trousers. Miss Stevenson
was moving quietly about the room in the semi-darkness collecting the
materials for a meal. I stood warming myself by the fire, and for a time
none of us spoke a word.

Compton finished his dressing, stood up, and turned to me. "I'm so
sorry," he said quietly, "but I never asked you your name...."

"Stenning," I said. "Philip Stenning."

He nodded. "Yes. I don't think I need try and tell you how grateful I am
to you for--for this?" He glanced at the table and the room.

"I don't think you need," I said, and laughed. "What comes next?"

He did not seem to have heard my question. He stood for a long time
staring down at his feet, warmly lit up in the glow from the stove.

"What comes next?" he said at last. "If I could tell you that I don't
suppose I should be--like this. Plato wanted to know that, didn't he?
and Sophocles--certainly Sophocles. But I'm so rusty on all that stuff
now."

"Come and have some supper," said the girl from behind the table. "You
must be frightfully hungry."

He roused himself. "I'm not very hungry. But thanks, Joan. What's that
you've got there--ham? I'd like a bit of ham. And then I must cut off
again."

"Don't be a fool," I said. "Where are you going to?"

He shook his head. "God only knows," he muttered. "I must lie low for a
bit."

I saw the girl pause in the dim light behind the table, and stare at
him. "You must get out of the country somehow, Denis," she said. "You
must get to France."

He looked at me vaguely. "I suppose that's the thing to do," he said at
last. "But I've got to stay in England for the present."

She looked at him in that uncomfortable, direct way that she had. "What
do you mean--you've got to?"

He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. "I don't know if you
imagine that I cut out of prison for fun," he said heavily. "Anyway--I
didn't." He relapsed into silence again, and sat for a time brooding
with his eyes on the table.

The girl looked at me helplessly.

I cleared my throat. "I don't want to butt in on any private business,"
I said. "But isn't this going a bit slowly? I don't want you to tell me
anything that you'd rather not talk about before a stranger. But I owe
you a good bit for what you did this afternoon, and I'm ready to help in
any way I can. I've come here prepared to do so."

I hope that I may be forgiven for that lie. I thought for a minute, and
then continued: "I didn't quite realize from what you said this
afternoon that you really mean to stay in the country. I've been
thinking about getting you out. I'll even go so far as to say that I'm
pretty sure I can get you to France within the week. I mean that. But if
there's any other way in which I can help I hope you'll let me know."

"I don't want to get you into trouble," he said.

"It doesn't matter a damn about me," I said. "But it seems to me that by
staying in England you run a great danger of being caught again--in
fact, it's pretty long odds against you. But--from now onwards you've
got to think about Miss Stevenson here. If they get you they'll pretty
certainly be able to trace out everyone who's been in contact with you,
and that may mean trouble. I understand that you got out of prison for
some reason--and by the way, it would be interesting to learn how you
did it. The point I want to make is that if you stay in England it's up
to you to avoid being caught, and it seems to me that's a far tougher
proposition than getting you out of the country."

"I see what you mean," he said slowly. "Yes, I see that."

He turned from me to the table and began to eat. He had had no food for
thirty-six hours, he said; at the same time, he had very little appetite
and ate a surprisingly small meal. I mixed myself a stiff whisky and sat
down by the fire, wondering what on earth was going to happen to this
chap. Now that I had time to study him more closely, I liked the look of
him. He was much my own build with very much the same hair and
complexion, though his hair was short while mine was long and brushed
back over my head.

The girl came and sat down opposite me, but we said very little till
Compton had finished his meal. I sat drowsing in front of the fire,
whisky in hand, and tried to think what was the best line to take if he
insisted on staying in England. I wanted to help him. It wasn't only
that he had saved my life; I knew as I sat there in the warm darkness
that I should have helped him anyway. I looked round the room in the red
light of the stove; it was a comfortable, decently furnished place. I
could imagine from the room something of the nature of the owner of the
house, the girl's father. He was a collector of mezzotints; they stared
down from all the walls, some beautiful, more grotesque, all very old.
He liked old blue china, did the owner of the house; he liked books more
for their old calf and vellum bindings than to read. There were soldiers
among his ancestors, for the walls were scattered here and there with
swords and cases of medals, and over my head there was a framed scroll
of honour.

I glanced again at the man at the table, and realized suddenly why it
was that I should have helped him in any case. It was because he was
so like myself; he was just such a man as I might have been if things
had gone a little differently. I might have gone to Oxford too. My
father was a naval officer, my mother was a lady of the chorus in a
Portsmouth music-hall. It didn't last long. Soon after I was born
there was trouble. I never learned what happened to my mother, but
whatever it was my father died of it--of that and of malaria on the
China Station. I was brought up all anyhow. That's what I mean when I
say that I would have helped him in any case. It might have been me;
it would have been me if I had been the son of Mary instead of the son
of Martha. I was Martha all over; I laughed quietly to myself as I
thought of the only poet I had ever read:
  _It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the
    shock,_
  _It is their care that the gear engages, it is their care that the
    switches lock._
Yes, I was certainly Martha. I had thought that I was coming into this
thing in a purely advisory capacity. I was wrong.

I finished my whisky in one gulp and sat up briskly, most frightfully
bucked with life. I knew what we were going to do.

The girl noticed the movement, and asked me what was the matter.

"Nothing," I said. "But I believe we can work this."

Compton finished his meal and got up from the table. He turned to the
girl. "I'm sorry to have come here like this, Joan," he said. "It's a
pretty rotten thing to have done, but I didn't dare to go anywhere where
they'd look for me. I don't know if you believe I had that money or not.
That isn't the point, though. I'm sorry to have come here like this."

"I don't believe you took a penny of it," she said. "I never did."

He smiled queerly. "Well," he said, "I did. I took five pounds to tide
me over the week-end because I'd forgotten to cash a cheque. I left the
account open--I had to, you see, or I wouldn't have been able to put it
back. I was away till the Thursday over that motor accident--as you
know. But I never knew anything about the other three thousand; that
went into the account on Monday and out again on Tuesday. I couldn't
have laid myself more open to it. At the same time, he was a clever
fellow."

I gathered that he had been secretary to some sort of charitable
association. Charity, it was evident, had not begun at home.

I heaved myself up out of my chair, crossed to the table, and took
another whisky. "We've not got too much time," I said. "Now look here.
Is it quite definite that you've got to stay in England?"

He nodded. "I can't leave England for the present," he said. "I've got
one or two things that I must see to before I go."

His manner of putting it made me smile; he might have been speaking of a
business appointment. I think it must have been then that I began to
realize that he really cared very little what happened to him. I think
it was this very casualness that probably carried him through.

"All right," I said. "Now there's just one thing we have to think about,
and that's this. If you get caught it means trouble for all of us.
You've simply not got to get caught. How long will it be before you can
leave the country?"

He thought for a minute. "This is June 6th," he said. "The 15th.... I
could leave England on the 18th. That's in twelve days' time, on Monday
week."

"Do you think they've tracked you to this part of the country?" I said.

He shook his head. "It's very difficult to say," he said. "But I had the
most extraordinary luck. I came here by road. I wasn't out an hour
before I got into the back of a motor-lorry that was coming from the
prison; I stayed there for about two hours, till it was dark. I don't
think they saw me there. Then we stopped outside a pub; I waited till
the coast was clear and got into a field. The pub was on the London
road, I think, because presently a motor furniture van stopped for a
drink and I heard them talking about London. They were driving all
night. I got on top of that and stayed there till daylight; we weren't
far away from here then, on the Henley road. I followed along across
country till I got to earth in those woods this morning at about six
o'clock. I don't think anyone saw me."

I thought of the Stokenchurch constable and realized that if the country
had been up in arms over an escaped convict in the neighbourhood I must
surely have heard of it.

I drained my tumbler and slammed it down on to the mantelpiece with a
sharp rap.

"Now look here," I said curtly. "You've not got a dog's chance, acting
on your own. If you cut off now they'll have you back in prison again
within two days. There's just one thing we can do for you that will give
you a sporting chance. We've got to get the attention of the police off
you and on to something else. We've got to lay a few red herrings. I
think I'd better cut off tonight and start laying them."

I don't know to this day what made me say that. It may have been a
sudden flash from the whisky; I know that the moment I had said it I
wished I hadn't. I wasn't fit; I was still feeling rotten from the crash
and I was most frightfully tired. But even so I was glad at the way the
girl took me up.

She looked me straight in the face in that embarrassing way of hers.
"What do you mean?" she said.

I laughed, not very merrily. "Why, safety first. If he gets caught it's
all up with us--all the lot of us. We're all in the same boat now. I
don't know if it would mean quod, but there'd be the hell of a scandal.
Now I'm pretty much the same build as Compton. Look at me. Think if I
had my hair cut and walked with a limp and wore clothes that didn't fit
me ... I don't say that anyone who had the photograph of Compton in his
hand would mistake us for a minute. But for the others ... I could lay a
pretty hot scent."

"Oh ..." she said. "You can't do that. It's not safe."

I took my glass and helped myself to another whisky.

"It's not safe to sit here doing nothing," I said shortly. "I could work
out that scheme all right. If anyone's got a better one, let's have it."

"That might work all right for a day or two," said Compton slowly. "It
doesn't appeal to me much. But you couldn't possibly keep it up; if you
laid a strong enough trail to direct their attention to you they'd get
you long before the 18th."

I shot the whisky down and felt better. "I can fix that all right," I
said. "And incidentally, I'll get you over to France at the end of that
time if you want to go."

He eyed me steadily. "How would you do that?"

I set down my glass, feeling more myself than I had since the crash.
"What I think of doing is this," I said slowly. "I start off from here
and lay a trail to the coast--to Devonshire. I take two days getting
down there, perhaps three. I can do that. I can fix it so that they're
damn certain they're tracing you, and I can do it without being caught
myself. In Devonshire I pick up a seven-ton yacht, the _Irene_,
belonging to a pal of mine, and get away to sea on her."

"Oh ..." said Compton.

I thought for a little. "That would be about the 9th," I said. "I'd have
to leave a pretty clear trail to show which way I'd gone, and get away
to sea. Then I'd simply have keep at sea till the 18th; it's a long time
to be single-handed in a small vessel, but I can do it all right. On the
evening of the 18th I stand inshore, pick you up, and trot you over to
France. Then I think I should cruise on up Channel for a bit to throw
off the scent, and come back a week or so later."

"It's possible," said Compton. "Where would you pick me up?"

"The best place would be the Helford River," I said.

"That's near Falmouth, you know."

We discussed the details of the business for half an hour or so. At last
I got fed up.

"Well, there it is," I said. "It's a perfectly sound scheme and it'll
get you out of the country as soon as you've finished whatever it is you
want to do." I looked at my watch; it was a quarter to one. "If I'm
going to start off on this I must be well away from here by dawn," I
said. "Now, what is it to be?"

Nobody spoke for a bit, and then Joan Stevenson said: "I can't see why
you should do all this for us, Mr Stenning."

"Better to be doing this than to be dead," I said. I turned to the
telephone. "That's settled then. Now, I've got one or two things to fix
up before I go. May I use your phone?"

We tied a table napkin round the bell to prevent it from ringing and
then I got down to it. First I rang up Dorman, the owner of the _Irene_.
He lives in a residential club near Marble Arch; they told me on the
phone that he was out dancing and wasn't back yet. I left a message for
him to ring me up, and impressed its urgency on the porter.

Then I rang up Morris. It was no use trying the aerodrome at that time
of night, of course, so I rang him at his home. The exchange said they
couldn't get any answer, but I kept them at it and got him in the end.
He sounded pretty sleepy.

"Hullo, Morris," I said, "having a good night? This is Stenning
speaking--Stenning. Look here, I'm not coming back to work for a
bit--I'm taking three weeks' holiday. What? No, I'm not coming back to
London at all. I'm tired to death. I can't go on flying like this. I
don't care a damn about that. I'm sending you a report of the crash that
you can send on to the Ministry. If you think I'm coming up to Town
simply to fill in one of your pink leave forms you're ruddy well
mistaken. I'm taking this leave on medical grounds. I'm not fit to fly
for a bit. I told you I wasn't fit. Now I'm going off for three weeks,
as soon as I've sent you my report. No, I'm damned if I will."

He asked where I was speaking from.

"Giggleswick," I said at random, and rang off.

I turned to the girl. "May I have some paper and a pen, please?" I said.
"To write that report." I crossed to the table and took another whisky.
"Then I shall want you to cut my hair for me, if you will."

She brought me the paper from another room and I settled down at the
table to write my report, the glass at my elbow. Compton and the girl
sat by the fire close together, talking earnestly in a low tone. I
didn't pay much attention to them, but concentrated my attention on
putting my report into official language for the benefit of the
Ministry. Their conversation put me off; I never was very good at letter
writing, and I don't suppose I was at my best that evening. I didn't try
to follow what they were saying, but the name Mattani came up over and
over again; it had a staccato ring that stood out clearly in their low
murmurs. I finished my report at last, read it through, and was annoyed
to find that I had said that the engine failed completely at a point
about three miles south of Marazan. For a moment I stared at it blankly,
wondering if Marazan was a place or a person. Then I struck it out, and
wrote in Stokenchurch.

I put the report in an envelope, addressed it to Morris, and gave it to
Joan Stevenson to post in the morning. Then I sat down in a chair and
she cut my hair; for a first attempt she made a pretty good job of it.
When she had finished I went and looked at myself in the glass.

"I believe this is going to work all right," I said.

Then she got some warm water and bathed the cut over my eyebrow for me.
It was a pretty deep cut, one that would serve to identify me for the
remainder of my life, but it wasn't bleeding and it looked healthy
enough. She washed it in something that stung me up all right; then she
put a bit of clean lint on it and stuck it up with plaster again. Then I
changed clothes with Compton. When that was done I went and had another
look at myself in the glass.

I was surprised at the change. With my hair cropped and the clothes that
Compton had been wearing I really wasn't at all a bad imitation of him.
Joan Stevenson was busy with another meal; I sat down at the table,
wrote out a cheque to her for thirty pounds, and gave it to her to cash
in the morning. We agreed that she should post the money to "Mr E. C.
Gullivant, The Post Office, Exeter--to await arrival." I had about eight
pounds on me, which would carry me to Exeter.

Then Dorman rang up.

"Is that Dorman?" I said. "Stenning speaking--yes, Stenning. I say, I
want to borrow the _Irene_ for a bit. Yes. I'd like to take her on
charter if I may--I want her for about three weeks. No, really, if you
can spare her I'd rather have her that way. I'll give you six guineas.
You're sure you don't need her? All right. Now, I want her at once; I
want to start the day after tomorrow if I can. She's at Salcombe? I know
it's pretty short notice. You'll telegraph to Stevens about her? Good
man. Look. Tell him to fill her up full of water, will you? And about
two stone of potatoes. The rest of the stuff I'll have to get in
Salcombe."

Joan Stevenson touched me on the arm. "Tell him that I'll go down and
provision her for you," she said. "You won't be able to."

I covered the transmitter and did some rapid thinking. It would be very
convenient to find the vessel already provisioned and ready for sea; at
the same time, the girl must be kept out of it.

"You won't have time to get any food," she said. "They'll be after you
by that time. I'll go down tomorrow and fix up everything, if you'll
tell me what to do."

"Then they'll get you."

"No, they won't. I'll be back in London twelve hours before you get to
Salcombe."

I uncovered the transmitter. "I say, Dorman," I said. "There's a cousin
of mine here, a Miss Fellowes, who's going down to Salcombe to buy the
stores for me and put them on board. Tell Stevens to expect a lady with
the stores tomorrow or on Friday. Yes, old Stevens knows me. What? Oh,
I'm sorry to hear that. What did he die of? Really. I'm very sorry. I
don't think I know the son. Anyway, you'll tell him to expect me the day
after tomorrow and to expect a lady first with the grub. It's all
right--I'm not taking the lady on board. I won't do anything to sully
the fair name of the _Irene_. Oh, just up and down the Channel--I've got
a holiday sudden-like. You'll telegraph first thing in the morning?
Right you are. Good night."

I rang off and turned to Joan Stevenson. "Bit of luck there," I said.
"The boatman doesn't know me. Now look here. I said I'd be there the day
after tomorrow--that's Friday. I probably shan't get there till the
Saturday, but it will keep them up to the scratch if they think I'm
coming earlier than I am. Can you go down there tomorrow?"

She nodded. "I can say I'm going up to London for a night," she said. "I
often do that. Then I can catch an express at Reading and be there by
tomorrow night."

"That spendid," I said. The whisky had killed my fatigue and my mind was
in good form for once. I pulled a sheet of notepaper towards me and set
to work with her to make a list of the things that she had to get in
Salcombe and put on board the _Irene_.

Twenty minutes later I turned to her. "Now you've got to get all that on
board on Friday morning," I said. "You've got to catch an afternoon
train back to Town. I want to make that pretty clear, please. Anything
that you can't buy or that you haven't got time to get you must leave to
the boatman, Stevens. I don't want there to be any mistake about that.
You've got to be out of Salcombe and on your way back to London by two
o'clock on Friday. That ought to give you a clear day in which to get
away before things start to get warm there. On the other hand, I may be
pressed and have to run for Salcombe ahead of my schedule. I may want to
get to sea on Friday. If I get there and find you in the neighbourhood
still I shall have to dodge back on my tracks. That may be unfortunate
for me."

She nodded. "I'll be away by two o'clock," she said.

"Right. Now there's one thing more. The _Irene_ will be lying in the Bay
probably--that's up the river. I want you to see her brought down to her
summer anchorage off the jetty. Tell the boatman that I want her there
in order that I can get off at once. See that done yourself: it's
important. And remember, your name is Miss Fellowes, and I'm your
cousin."

I made her repeat her instructions till I was sure she had them perfect,
and then I sat down and had a meal. She offered to make me some coffee,
but I refused that, had another whisky, and followed it down with a
couple of plates of cold ham. One thing she got me, though, that went
down well, and that was a little bottle of aspirin. I took four or five
of them and they eased off my headache a bit, so that by the time I'd
finished my meal I was very nearly fit.

I looked at my watch; it was a little after three. I lit a pipe and
strolled to the window. It was a wonderful night. The clouds and the
wind were all gone and there was a full moon dying down upon the
horizon, big and red. Faint, earthy, flowery smells came in from the
garden, and away in the field there was something squeaking plaintively,
continuously, as it had been while I was waiting to enter the house. I
leaned on the window-sill smoking and wondering what should be my first
move; it was clear that I must begin operations at a considerable
distance from Stokenchurch. It seemed to me that Abingdon, five miles
south of Oxford, would be a good place to lay my first red herring; it
was fully twenty-five miles away and on my road to Salcombe.

The curtain was pulled aside and Compton came and stood staring beside
me. He didn't speak, but stood there staring moodily out over the
garden, his hands in his pockets. And presently I heard him mutter to
himself: "The New Utopia...."

"Eh?" said I. "What's that?"

He didn't answer, but began to ask me how I was going to pick him up at
the Helford River. I told him about a little beach that there is there
close to the entrance; we fixed that I should be there from eleven
o'clock till three on the night of the 18th-19th, and again, if he
didn't turn up, on the night of the 19th-20th. If he weren't there then
I would give it up and return to Salcombe.

He understood what he was to do all right, but for the rest he was
distrait and moody. I knew all the time that I was talking to him that I
held only a part of his attention; he seemed incapable of concentrating
his mind on the measures that I was working out for his own safety. I am
surprised that this didn't irritate me; as it is, I can only remember
thinking how woefully unfitted he was for the business that he had taken
on. I was sorry for him, I think.

He roused himself at last and turned from the window. "I'd have done
better on a pig farm," he said, a little bitterly.

For the moment I didn't quite see what he was driving at. "I've always
thought myself that there was money in pigs if you go about it the right
way," I said. "But it needs a good bit of capital. And they say there's
a lot in the breed--more than you'd think. I was talking to a man at
Amesbury about it last month."

He looked at me curiously. "I always had a great fancy to keep pigs," he
said. "Live-stock of all sorts--but pigs in particular. I don't know
why. My grandfather was the same. I used to look forward to it as a
thing that I might do when I retired from business. I suppose I hadn't
the courage to break off into it when I was young."

He paused for a minute, and then he said: "Shall I ever be able to come
back to England?"

I knew that the girl was watching us; I could feel her looking at me for
my reply, I couldn't see her, but I knew that she would be standing very
straight, looking straight at me from her grave, deep eyes. I knew then
what it was that embarrassed me whenever she spoke to me, something that
I suppose I had never met in a girl before. Behind her were centuries of
tradition, the traditions of a good college, of a good regiment, of a
good club. She could have answered his question so much better than I
could--but then, I don't suppose he'd have paid much attention to her.

I checked the emphatic negative, and turned to him. "Man alive," I said
slowly, "you've been a ruddy fool over this. What on earth made you
break prison?"

He was going to speak, but I stopped him. "I don't know what it is that
you've got on hand," I said, "and I don't want to. If all goes well we
can get you out of the country all right. But--is it worth it?"

He didn't speak, but stood staring out into the dim shadow of the woods.
I went on:

"You'll never be able to come back to England now, you know, unless it's
under a false name." It was as if I had been speaking to a child.
"You've done with England. Your best line--the one that I should try if
I were you--is to try and ship before the mast on a French vessel.
Become a sailor for a year or two and see where that takes you to. Maybe
you'll end up in America. But you've done with England."

"Yes," he said quietly, "I've done with England."

"There's the alternative," I said.

"What's that?"

I knocked my pipe out sharply upon the window-sill. "That you should go
back and finish your sentence," I said. "When you've finished it, set up
a piggery somewhere here in the south. There's money in that. In that
case I'll borrow the car and run you up to Scotland Yard in the morning.
Don't think that I'm suggesting this because I'm lazy."

I turned round and saw the girl standing close behind us. "Don't you
think that would be the best thing to do?" she said.

He shook his head. "I can't do that," and from his tone I knew that that
was final.

"Right you are," I said. "It's time that I was starting. I must be well
away from here by daylight."

The girl produced a rucksack from a cupboard; I had decided that I would
pose as an art student or somebody of that sort on a walking tour. I
chose an art student because I had knocked about a bit with them in
their less artistic moments both in London and Paris, and I knew enough
of the jargon to pass with anyone but an artist. The girl helped me to
pack the bag with the convict suit and one or two things that she
thought would come in handy, including an immense packet of ham
sandwiches that she had been cutting all evening.

As she bent over the thing on the floor, tightening its straps, she
leaned towards me. "It was frightfully good of you to say that," she
muttered.

"I'm only sorry that he won't do it," I said.

She tugged at a strap. "You mustn't think it's going to be any easier
for him this way," she said. "I do wish he could tell you about it.
You've been such a good friend to us."

We finished with the rucksack. Then we tidied up the room as well as we
could, and made sure that there was no trace of Compton left behind us.
We couldn't entirely do away with all evidence that the room had been
occupied; the girl would have to see to that with the maids. Then we got
out of the window, closed it quietly behind us, and went round to the
garage. We had to be pretty quiet here to avoid waking the servants; for
silence we pushed the car outside the gate and a hundred yards down the
lane. There we started her up, got in, and trundled off for Oxford.

It was about half past four. The girl drove and I sat with Compton in
the back seat. He was deep in his own thoughts; for a while he tried
absently to make conversation, but soon relapsed into a silence that
stretched unbroken through the miles. I remember he asked me if I had
any ties in particular, if I was married or engaged.

"Lord, no," I said. "Nothing like that about me."

I think he may have learned more from the tone in which I spoke than
from my words, because he nodded slowly.

"There's safety in numbers," he said. "And it's really the happiest way,
I suppose. Just take what you can get, and be thankful." He relapsed
into silence again, but something in the way he said that had given me a
nasty start. It may have been that I was tired. It may have been that it
was the sanest, most horrible hour of the twenty-four, when the cold
grey dawn comes creeping up over the fields and means the beginning of
another blasted day. I only know that my whole life was summed up in
those words of his. I only know that they've come back to me time after
time, and always with the same bitter ring in them. "Take what you can
get," he said, "and be thankful."

A little later I said: "It's getting quite light."

He smiled. "Hassan," he said, and I wondered what on earth he was
talking about.

          _Thy dawn, O Master of the world, thy dawn;_
          _The hour of the lilies open on the lawn,_
          _The hour the grey wings pass behind the mountains,_
          _The hour of silence, when we hear the fountains,_
          _The hour that dreams are brighter and winds colder,_
          _The hour that young love wakes on a white shoulder--_

He stopped short, it seemed to me in the middle of a sentence. I didn't
remember all this stuff, of course, but long afterwards Joan built up
the quotation from my garbled memories, and she wrote down a copy of the
lines and gave it to me. I kept that carefully and I have it still--not
for the poem, but for another reason.

It was very cold. The rush of cold air made my head sing and throb
painfully; I wanted to concentrate on my plans, but couldn't focus my
mind at all. Then I realised that I'd made a slip; I should have brought
a flask of that whisky with me. I was sobering up. That meant that I
should be no good at all until I had been to sleep; indeed, it was
imperative that I should get some sleep soon. I was frightfully done. I
had intended to lay my first red herring that very morning and clear off
out of the neighbourhood; I saw now that that was impossible. I must lay
my red herring after I had slept, or I should be an easy mark.

We went through Stokenchurch, down the Aston Rowant hill, and on over
the plain through Tetsworth and finally by Wheatley. I should have gone
on through Oxford, but the girl knew a trick worth two of that, and we
turned off in Wheatley and for half an hour went wandering through lanes
that seemed to lead to nowhere in particular. Presently she stopped the
car by the side of the road and pointed to a spire about a couple of
miles away.

"That's Abingdon," she said.

I took my rucksack and got out of the car. She gave me the map that was
kept in the pocket of the car; it was a fine large road map covering the
whole of the south of England. We bent over it together and she showed
me where I was, about two miles to the west of Abingdon.

"Right you are," I said. "Now you'd better get along back." She was to
drop Compton at a railway station; it was his business to lie low till
the hue and cry was finally established after me. Then she was to get
back to Stokenchurch before the servants got downstairs, and be ready to
make an excuse and start for Salcombe after breakfast.

She turned to the car, and for a minute we stood together in the road,
unwilling to separate. Then I shook hands with them and wished them
luck. The girl got in and I started up the car for her, wondering if I
should ever see either of them again. Then they drove off. The last I
saw of them was Compton looking back at me, white and impassive as he
had been all the time. It worried me, that look of his.

Well, there I was. It was about half past five in the morning, and to
all appearance it was going to be as hot a day as the day before had
been before the rain. I picked up my rucksack and trudged along the
road, only half awake, looking for somewhere to sleep.

And then I saw the haystack. It stood by itself in the corner of a
field; it was a fairly low one with a tarpaulin pitched over it like a
tent. There was nobody about; I summoned up the last of my strength and
climbed up on top of it. There was a space about two feet high beneath
the tarpaulin. I took off my boots, dug myself a nest, made myself
thoroughly comfortable, and fell fast asleep.




                             CHAPTER THREE


It must have been about midday when I awoke. I opened my eyes and lay
blinking at the tarpaulin above me. It was getting very hot beneath the
covering. I lay for a little collecting my thoughts; then I put on my
boots, collected my things, and crawled to the edge of the stack.

It wasn't long before my troubles began. I looked round and didn't see
anybody about, so I dropped the rucksack down on to the ground and half
slid, half fell down after it. I reached the ground more or less
inverted in a flurry of hay, and sat there for a bit trying to get it
out of my ears.

At that point somebody shouted: "Oy!"

I looked round, and there was a stocky-looking young man in breeches and
gaiters striding up the field. From the first I disliked the look of
him. He was one of those flamboyantly sharp young fellows that you
sometimes find in the bar of a country pub; I suppose every village has
one or two like him. He would be the local Don Juan, the crack
billiard-player, the acknowledged authority on last year's musical
comedy, the smart lad of the village. I looked at him with misgiving.

"Here comes trouble," I thought. And I wasn't ready for trouble. I
hadn't made any plans.

"Oy!" he said again. "Coom on aht of that."

I got to my feet and picked up my rucksack. By this time he was quite
close.

"Coom on," he said. "You git on aht o' this. What the ruddy 'ell's the
game? Hey? I seen you. You was up on top o' the stack. Hey?"

"Right you are," I said. "I'll move on."

He stepped in front of me. "No, you don't," he said. "You don't catch me
like that." He laughed. "Not likely. What's the game? Hey?"

"All right," I said. "I've been sleeping here. That's all."

He took me up at once. "No, you wasn't," he said. "You was up on top o'
that stack. I seen you slide down."

"Damn it," I said, "I was sleeping on top of the stack."

That seemed to amuse him. "Oh," he said. "You was, was you. You can't
come it over me like that." Then as luck would have it, he caught sight
of the rucksack. "What's that you've got there?" he said. "Coom on.
Let's 'ave a look."

I stepped back a pace. "You can leave that alone," I said. "It's no
business of yours." I didn't want him to see the convict clothes in the
bag.

"Ho," said he, "so that's it. D'you reckon I don't know what you've got
in that bag? Hey? D'you think I don't know the game. I'll tell you what
you've got there. One o' my Plymouth cockerels. That's what you got
there. One o' my Plymouth cockerels. The one as had his leg trapped,
so's you got him easy. That's what you got there. Hey?"

It was absurd. To show that I was not responsible for the missing
cockerel I had only to open my bag, and that was precisely what I could
not do. It became evident to me that I was in a corner; that I could
only get out of this absurd situation by laying a red herring. I must
see that it was a good one.

I moved over to pick up my cap; as I did so it occurred to me to walk
with a pronounced limp.

"Hey ..." he cried, and stopped short. I thought I could detect a note
of uncertainty in that "Hey", and smiled to myself. I crammed the cap on
my head and turned to him again. He looked undecided and furtive; the
colour was not so high in his beastly face as it had been. For a moment
I felt quite sorry for him. Then I dropped my bag.

"What do you mean by that?" I said. The stuffing seemed to have fallen
out of him all of a sudden. "I didn't mean nothing," he said.

I moved a little closer to him. "Oh yes, you did," I said. "Now suppose
you think a bit, and tell me just what you did mean." I eyed him
carefully. He was a bigger man than I, but I could see that he wasn't
going to give me much trouble.

He didn't answer, so I asked him again.

"I seen about you in the paper," he muttered. "I didn't mean you no
harm."

"That's as it may be," I said very softly. "But you weren't very
hospitable, were you?"

Then I hit him. Looking back upon it now, I think that was the dirtiest
thing I did in the whole business, if not in my life. He hadn't a notion
what was coming to him. He was peering forward at me as they always do
when you suddenly drop your voice. It's a trick I learned when I was a
boy; I suppose that shows the sort of school I went to better than any
words of my own. He was leaning forward; I caught him fairly on the
point of the chin with the whole weight of my body behind it. His teeth
came together with such a crack that for the moment I thought I must
have broken his jaw, then he crumpled up at the knees and fell backwards
in a heap at my feet.

As I say, I think it was about the dirtiest blow I ever struck. At the
same time, I dare say I should do it again. I was four miles from a
railway station; with this village Sherlock on my trail I'd never have
got away. I owed it to Compton to make a better show than that.

There were a lot of tag-ends of bindings lying about on the ground,
little thin bits of rope about the thickness of a pencil, but quite
strong. Before he came to I had got him well trussed up, with his hands
behind his back and his feet tied. Then I took him and laid him in the
ditch by the haystack and covered him up with hay all except his face. I
sat down beside him and waited for him to wake up, occupying my time and
inventive capacity in devising a gag from his handkerchief and a bit of
stick.

He came to himself presently, and when he was moderately clear I talked
to him like a father.

"Now look here," I said. "You've got to stay here for the next five or
six hours I'm afraid--and just to make sure that you do, I'm going to
gag you. I don't suppose you'll be able to untie those knots. I see you
know who I am; I'm Compton, the convict from Dartmoor. Nobody knows I'm
in this part; if you hadn't come interfering with me I'd have let you
alone. As it is, I've got to protect myself. Now, I'm going to gag you
and leave you in this ditch covered over with hay; then I'm going up to
London by train. When I get there I'll send a telegram to your home to
tell them where you are."

He began to swear in a perfectly dreadful manner, so I gagged him and
nearly got my finger bitten off in the process.

"If you do that again," I said angrily, "I'll give you such a clip on
the ear as'll send you to sleep again." I got out my notecase and a bit
of pencil and waited till he had done struggling. "Now, what's your
address? You'd better tell me quickly: it's your best chance of getting
loose this evening."

I untied the gag and he told me his name, Fred Grigger, and the name of
his farm. I noted that down and gagged him again well and truly. Then I
turned him over on his face and put another lashing on his hands for
luck. Finally, I turned him right way up again, made him as comfortable
as I could with a bundle of hay under his head, covered him over with
hay, and left him to his own devices.

It was about half past one. I studied my map for a little and decided to
make for Culham station, which I judged to be about four miles away. I
picked up my rucksack, slung it over my shoulders, and set off down the
road munching a sandwich as I went.

It took me some time to find the station and I had to ask more people
than I liked. However, I was lucky in my train, which came along about
ten minutes after I arrived. I booked a ticket to Reading, meaning to
change there and get along down west after I had telegraphed about
Grigger.

At Didcot an engine-driver got into my compartment with his mate. It
struck me that I might get a little information out of them, and sounded
them about trains for the west. It appeared that the next Exeter train
was the 5.10 from Paddington, getting to Exeter at about half past
eight. It stopped at Reading. I considered this information carefully.
The train that I was in was due at Paddington at 3.34; it seemed to me
that I would be wiser to go on up to Town and send my telegram from
there rather than to risk identification by hanging about on Reading
station for three hours.

We got to Paddington at about twenty minutes to four. I dived straight
down into the Tube and took a ticket for Waterloo. At Waterloo I came up
into the daylight again and plunged at random into a labyrinth of mean
houses and squalid streets. After walking for five minutes I found a
post office and sent the following telegram:

    "Grigger will be found in a ditch by a haystack near the
    Dorchester Abingdon road tied up and covered over with hay."

I put a false name and address on this and passed it across the counter;
the girl looked at me curiously as she gave me the change, but didn't
make any comment. I impressed myself on her memory by asking the way to
St. Pancras Station, and being so dense that she had to explain it all
to me twice. Then I got away, found my way back to Waterloo and so to
Paddington again. I had a quarter of an hour to spare, so I went out and
bought a cheap suitcase into which I put the rucksack without
unfastening it. It made me a little too conspicuous for my liking.

I got down to Exeter without any further incident, though I must say I
was glad the train didn't stop at Didcot. It seemed to me that I
shouldn't run much risk in going to a hotel for the night so long as it
was one in keeping with my clothes and general appearance. I wasn't
exactly tired, but I had the feeling that the chance of a good night in
bed wasn't one that I could afford to despise.

I had stayed in the town once or twice when I had been flying in the
neighbourhood, but I didn't want to go to the sort of hotel that I had
stayed at then. For one thing, they might remember me, and that would
tend to spoil any dramatic effects that I might want to produce when I
left the town. I took my bag and walked from the station up to the High
Street, and then down the hill towards the river. I crossed the bridge
and a little farther on I saw exactly the sort of place I was looking
for, a "family and commercial" hotel of a definitely middle-class type.
I went in there and booked a room, signing myself in the register as E.
C. Gullivant.

I was afraid to stay in the hotel; it was becoming clear to me what a
nerve-shaking thing it must be to be a genuine fugitive from justice. I
didn't quite consider myself as that yet, though I must say the Abingdon
affair had turned me into something remarkably like it. I went out again
into the street, and up the town, and presently I turned in to a
picture-house.

I like the pictures. It's the only place where I can enjoy myself when
I'm at all tired. I never was one for reading much, and most theatres
nowadays seem to require that one should be a little drunk to appreciate
them properly. But the pictures are different; I turned in to this show
with my pipe, sat down in the darkness behind a pair of couples and
began to think what I was going to do next. I thought it pretty certain
that I had thrown off any pursuit from Abingdon; at the same time I had
managed to lay a good fat red herring there in the approved desperate
character style. My next move must be calculated to bring discredit on
the fair name of Gullivant.

This was Thursday evening. By this time Joan Stevenson would be in
Salcombe fixing up the vessel for me--it seemed incredible that it was
only that morning that I had left her and Compton. She would be clear of
Salcombe by tomorrow afternoon; I could go down there tomorrow evening
if I wished and get to sea at once. I knew that I could trust her to
have everything ready for me.

There were two girls in front of me sitting together and flanked by
their attendant swains. Suddenly one of them turned to the other:

"He's bitten me!" she said indignantly.

This sent me into a paroxysm of subdued laughter and put a stop to any
further planning for the moment. I laughed so much that they heard me
and broke away from the clinch; it was evident that I had spoiled their
evening and presently they got up and went out, not without dignity. I
was sorry then. It has always seemed to me that one should live and let
live; after all, one never knows when one may want to bite a girl in the
pictures oneself.

I stayed in there till the end of the show and then strolled back to my
hotel. There was nobody about in the hall and I got up to my room
without meeting a soul; a circumstance for which I was thankful. I was
getting very nervous; I was half sorry that I hadn't spent the night in
the fields somewhere. It was a warm night; I could have done so quite
well.

I undressed slowly, pondering my plans. I came to the conclusion that I
must lay two more red herrings before I got away to sea--good smelly
ones. One I would leave next day in Exeter or the neighbourhood; the
other I would lay in Salcombe itself on the Saturday morning, so that
there should be no difficulty in connecting me with the departure of the
_Irene_. I cannot remember that at any time I worried very much as to
what would happen when eventually I brought the _Irene_ back to Salcombe
and took up my ordinary life again. That didn't worry me at all, oddly
enough. I think that even then I must have realized that things were
unlikely to go exactly to plan. For one thing, I thought that Compton
would be caught by the police long before I landed to pick him up on the
little beach at the entrance to the Helford River.

Still pondering deeply, I got into bed and snuggled down beneath the
clothes. Then I swore, more in astonishment than in pain, because it was
clear that somebody had been being damn funny with my bed. There was
something in it, down at the foot. I lit my candle again and groped
about at the bottom of the bed, and presently fished up a small china
candlestick ornamented with a wreath of blue roses and the legend: "A
Present from Plymouth." And then I saw that it had a little china ring
for a handle, and through this ring there was stuffed a piece of
notepaper, rolled up into a little cylinder. On the paper was the
direction, scrawled carefully in pencil:

    "Mr. Compton."

"Good God!" I said weakly, and sat staring at it for a moment. Then I
pulled myself together, took the paper from the candlestick, and
unrolled it. It was quite a short note.

    "The party you coshed at Abingdon got free at 4 and made hell
    you was a fool to tell him. Mattarney comes to England before
    the 15th and goes on with the boat. Write to RLT he can fix up
    for you to see him. You're OK now but move on tomorrow."

Short, snappy, and probably very much to the point. It wasn't signed.

I must have lain in bed staring at the ceiling for fully half an hour,
the paper in my hand and the candle guttering by my side. At last I
roused myself, blew out the candle, and tried to summarize my
conclusions before I went to sleep. The note I placed carefully in the
pocket of my coat. I would have burned it there and then but for the
reflection that if I did so I should think in the morning I had been
under the influence of alcohol.

First of all, my unknown correspondent was in touch with a pretty
efficient intelligence bureau of some sort. This bureau was evidently
illicit or it would hardly be priming me with information of that sort.
They knew all about Compton and were well disposed towards him. There
was the information that Mattarney was to do something on the 15th, "and
goes on with the boat." Compton's important day had been the 15th, and
he had spoken about Mattani to the girl. I wondered who Mattani was and
whether he was Irish or Italian. Lastly, it was evident that the bureau
didn't know everything, because they hadn't tumbled to the fact that I
had changed places with Compton.

I hoped most devoutly that the police would prove a shade slower at the
uptake than this lot.

One thing was clear; that some organization was keeping a benevolent eye
on me in the belief that I was Compton. Whether they would continue to
do so when they learned the truth was another matter. I began to feel
that I was not the important person that I thought I was; that I was a
mere pawn in some game that Compton was playing which I knew nothing
about. This worried me. It seemed to me that the best thing I could do
was simply to carry on as I had intended, to lay my red herrings to the
best of my ability, and to get away to sea as soon as possible. At the
moment the only thing I could do was to go to sleep.

I turned over on my side and began to drowse. There was one point in the
note that struck me then, and the drowsier I grew the more important it
seemed, till it seemed to me that it contained the whole essence of the
affair. Mattarney ... goes on with the boat. What boat was that? Surely
not a liner; the phraseology seemed all wrong for that. A merchant
vessel of his own? A yacht? And where was she going to?

Then, just before I went to sleep, my mind went off at a tangent.
Private intelligence bureaux with a fatherly interest in criminals might
be assumed to be criminal themselves. What grade of criminal was likely
to need the services of such an organization? Secret societies have
never had a very great vogue in England unless for definite purposes of
gain. What sort of illicit gain? Coining? That didn't seem very likely.
It would be something more easily concealed, some business in which the
risk of detection was small, the profits large, and with a necessity for
numerous agents. Possibly the boat was connected with it. Could it be
some form of smuggling? That didn't seem to fit in with modern
conditions.

And then, quite suddenly, I remembered what Compton had said when I
asked him what he was imprisoned for. He had told me.

"Embezzlement," I had said. "Well, that's a nice clean sort of crime. So
long as it wasn't anything to do with dope or children."

He had looked at me curiously and had asked rather a curious question
considering that he was pressed for time.

"You don't like dope?" he had said. And I had cut him short. I wished
now that I hadn't.

I slept well in spite of everything. I woke at about seven o'clock, got
out the note, and read it again. Then I lay for a long time trying to
make a plan. The essentials weren't difficult. I had registered in the
hotel in the name of Gullivant. Gullivant had to be firmly identified
with Compton, the convict, in such a way as to bring the police hot on
the scent. I didn't think I ought to do that too early in the day.
Salcombe was not so very far away from Exeter; I didn't want my Exeter
reputation to follow me there before I was ready for it. I must have a
bit of a start.

I dressed thoughtfully and went down to breakfast. It seemed that I was
the only person in the hotel, which was very little more than a pub in
point of fact. I ate my breakfast under the eye of the waiter, lit a
pipe, and turned into the commercial room. Idly I picked up a paper, and
there it was.

It shrieked at me in headlines on the front page:

                     OUTRAGE BY ESCAPED CONVICT ON
                              OXFORD FARM
                           COMPTON IN LONDON?

    Compton, the escaped convict from Dartmoor, was identified in
    Oxfordshire yesterday, where he was the author of a violent
    attack upon a young farmer, Frederick Grigger, in a field near
    Abingdon. The convict made good his escape, and at the time of
    going to press he is still at large. It is believed that he is
    making for London.

    Our correspondent found Mr Grigger at his farm, where he is
    recovering from his injuries. "I was walking along the hedge,"
    said Mr Grigger, "when he dashed out and came at me like a mad
    bull." Mr Grigger was severely handled. "I am a strong man,"
    said Mr Grigger, "having been runner-up in the South Oxfordshire
    Ploughing Championship two years ago, but he shook me as a
    terrier shakes a rat." The motive of the outrage remains a
    mystery, though the disappearance of a cockerel from Mr
    Grigger's farm may supply a clue.

There was a lot more of it; Grigger had evidently made the most of his
opportunity. To every man, I suppose, there comes the chance of fame of
one kind or another, and one would be a fool not to make the most of it.
At the same time, it looked like being very awkward for me if it ever
came out who I was. He had fairly let himself go. As I read the account
I began to get a little indignant; he hadn't played fair. He said that I
had struck him with a loaded stick. I hadn't; I struck him with my own
strong right arm--as he knew perfectly well. My knuckles were still
sore.

A waiter passed through the room and saw what I was reading. "Shocking
thing about this convict, sir," he said.

"Perfectly appalling," I said gravely. "I can't think what the police
are about, letting this sort of thing go on." I was pleasantly conscious
that I was providing him with the sensation of his life.

I finished my pipe and went out to the post office. My letter was there,
an envelope with thirty pounds in notes in it. I looked for some letter
with the notes; it seemed to me that it would have been an improvement
if there had been a line or two of encouragement with the money.
However, there wasn't. It was safer so, anyway.

I went back to the hotel and asked for a Bradshaw, asking at the same
time if they knew anything about the trains for Liverpool. They didn't,
so I settled myself down with the Bradshaw to map my route to Salcombe.
There was a train to Kingsbridge, the station for Salcombe, at 3.30,
changing at Newton Abbot. I traced it back; it left Taunton at 2.45.
There was a train from Exeter to Taunton at 1.56, arriving at 2.33, and
this went on to the Midlands. I could get to Taunton and catch the train
back again through Exeter to Kingsbridge with twelve minutes to spare at
Taunton. The only thing I should have to be careful about was that
nobody recognized me as I passed through Exeter again on my way west.

I got hold of a copy of _The Times_ then, tore out that part of the
shipping intelligence that covered the sailings from Liverpool, took the
rest of the paper upstairs and left it in my bedroom; I could imagine
the delight with which it would be greeted by some amateur detective
later in the day. Then I went out into the town again and bought a long
green raincoat and had it made up into a brown-paper parcel. In another
shop I bought a deer-stalker hat; this I put in my pocket. Finally, I
went back to the hotel and told them that I should be leaving after tea.

There was about a quarter of an hour before lunch. I went upstairs and
opened my suitcase; there was the rucksack, the convict clothes, and one
or two personal odds and ends of my own that I had stuffed into the
pockets of my flying coat before leaving the aerodrome--a razor,
shaving-brush, etc. I put these in my pockets. Then I took the convict
underclothes, a rough grey shirt and vest with the initials of His
Majesty splashed all over them with a stencil, and made them up into a
parcel with the raincoat. The rest of the clothes I put back into the
suitcase and left there, a handsome present for the owner of the hotel.

I went downstairs and lunched heavily; I didn't know exactly when my
next meal would be. Then I took my parcel and walked out of the hotel
without paying my bill, but leaving my suitcase in the bedroom. They
would realize when I didn't turn up in the evening that all was not as
it should be, and presumably would look inside the suitcase to make sure
there was security for the debt. I wished them joy of it.

I walked to the station; at the booking office I asked the price of a
ticket to Liverpool. I retired without doing any business, came back
again and asked the price of a ticket to Birmingham. The clerk looked at
me askance this time, particularly when I questioned his information and
asked if there was any way whereby I could get to Liverpool any cheaper.
Having impressed myself sufficiently on his memory, I bought a ticket
for Birmingham, asked the collector which was the train, and got in.
From the train I was intensely gratified to see the clerk come out of
his office and start gossiping with the ticket-collector, evidently
about me.

Then we started. As soon as we were well under way I left the
compartment I was in and walked along the corridor till I found an empty
one. Here I unpacked my parcel and put on the raincoat and hat, making
up the convict underclothes into a smaller parcel. Then I tore up my
ticket for Birmingham and threw it out of the window. Presently a ticket
inspector came down the train; I explained that I had had no time to
book at Exeter, and took a ticket to Taunton.

At Taunton I went out into the town, made a rapid circuit round the
station, and reached the down platform in time to book a ticket for
Plymouth and to catch the train. Remembering the geography of the
platform at Exeter I got into a compartment in the front of the train
that would pull up well clear of the booking office, my chief hazard.
But all went well. At Exeter I remained snuggled up in the far corner of
the compartment, and after a five-minute halt the train pulled out of
the station without any untoward incident having occurred to mar the
even tenor of the afternoon.

I had tea on the station at Newton Abbot, booked again for Kingsbridge,
and got there about half past six. It was a clear warm evening and the
air was sweet and fresh, with that indefinable salt tang that you only
seem to get in the west. I had decided to sleep out. I still had the
packet of ham sandwiches that Joan Stevenson had cut for me at
Stokenchurch, and I had bought a bottle of Bass at Newton Abbot which
protruded coyly from the pocket of my raincoat. It seemed to me that it
would be safer to sleep out; Exeter was barely fifty miles away and I
was pretty sure that my red herring would be tainting the breeze there
before the evening was far gone--if indeed, it was not doing so already.
I didn't want to be haled from my bed in the middle of the night to
spend the remainder of it in the local police station. That would have
been very distressing.

I turned out of the station and began to walk up the hill towards
Salcombe, some six miles away. It seemed to me that it would be best if
I found somewhere to sleep among the fields, not very far from Salcombe.
Then I could walk into the town in the morning, find the boatman, and
make all ready for my departure. I could then come ashore, lay my final
red herring, and get away to sea.

I walked on up over the hill and through a village. Presently I came in
sight of the sea, blue and smeared with currents like snail tracks
beyond a stretch of yellow, gorse-covered headland. I was frightfully
glad to see the sea, I remember; I hadn't been to sea for over a year. I
needed a holiday and I wanted a cruise in a decent little boat almost
more than anything. Moreover, I felt that it would mean an end to my
responsibility for Compton--for the time at any rate. Once at sea I
shouldn't be able to do any more for him.

When I had been walking for about an hour I came to a crossroads and a
pub. I went in here and had a very satisfactory little meal of bread and
cheese and beer; I explained that I had started to walk from Kingsbridge
to my hotel at Salcombe, but found that I should arrive too late for
dinner. I sat over the remains of the meal for a long time, smoking and
pondering my last red herring. Abruptly, I made a change in my plans,
paid my shot at the pub, and began to walk back towards Kingsbridge.

It was a perfect evening. The sun was setting brightly into the sea;
there were no clouds about and hardly a breath of wind. I looked at the
sun again and recalled the remnants of my weather lore; it seemed to me
that everything spoke of calm weather and easterly winds. I thought that
that would do me very well. I must confess that I didn't relish the idea
of eight days single-handed in the Channel if the weather were at all
tough.

I walked back almost as far as Kingsbridge. I must have had a divination
for haystacks in those days, for I found another one to extend me its
hospitality for the night. It stood about two fields away from the road.
It was nearly dark when I chanced on it. The stack was half cut away and
there was a pile of loose hay at the foot of it; I rolled myself up in
this and made myself comfortable for the night. I was still carrying the
parcel of convict underclothes; I made this a foundation for my pillow.

I lay for a little worrying about the note that I had had at Exeter, and
finally fell asleep.

I woke up early and lay for a long time trying to go to sleep again. The
sun was too strong, however, and a little before six o'clock I was
sitting up and taking notice, ready for the day's play. First I got out
the parcel of underclothes and examined the garments more closely. It
seemed to be pretty obvious to whom they belonged; at the same time, it
would be as well to take no chances. I got out my packet of ham
sandwiches and ate all I could of them for breakfast; there were two and
a half left when I had finished, the half being artistically munched at
the edges. I got out the Exeter note, read it through carefully, put it
with the underclothes and the remainder of the sandwiches, and made the
lot up into an untidy parcel. My red herring was ready; it remained only
to lay it.

They had told me at the inn that there was a bus from Kingsbridge to
Salcombe at nine in the morning, connecting with the train arriving at
8.42. I hung about the outskirts of the town till I saw the smoke of the
train, then strolled down the hill to the station and mingled with the
little crowd in the station yard. The Salcombe bus was there and soon
filled about half full with passengers. I noticed that the top of the
bus was stacked high with supplies for the Salcombe shops, groceries,
Tate sugar-boxes, sides of bacon, and all the rest of it.

I bought a copy of the _Daily Mail_ and got into the bus. I opened the
paper and there I was again, in Exeter this time. There was a photograph
of Compton on the back page and a description of him inside. There
wasn't so much in the letterpress about me as there had been the day
before; on the other hand, I had achieved the immortality of a ten-line
editorial. This pleased me vastly. Grigger, I learned, was recovering
from his injuries. I might have half killed him from the fuss he was
making about it.

The bus started, and we went trundling out over the road that I had
walked the night before. In half an hour we were running down the hill
into Salcombe; I pulled myself together for the last lap. A great deal
now depended on whether Joan Stevenson had done her part of the business
all right. I didn't think that she would have let me down, but--a good
deal depended on her.

We lumbered into sight of the harbour past the Yacht Club. Looking out
over the low stone parapet of the road I saw the _Irene_ lying at her
summer moorings off the jetty, trim and smart, with the mainsail
uncovered and the jib set and rolled. I remember registering a vow that
one day I'd meet Joan Stevenson again to thank her. As things turned
out, that vow wasn't necessary.

The bus drew up in the narrow street outside the door of the railway
agency, completely blocking the road. The conductor got out first and
began to busy himself with the stores on the roof; the bus was soon
surrounded by a little crowd of the local shopkeepers, all talking
nineteen to the dozen. I waited till the last of the passengers had got
out of the bus, left my parcel on one of the seats in a corner of the
bus, got out into the road, and mingled with the crowd. My red herring
was well and truly laid; it only remained for me to get away before the
drag began to run the scent.

I guessed that it would be ten minutes before the parcel was discovered
and at least another twenty before it became clear to whom it had
belonged. That gave me half an hour--with any luck--in which to get to
sea. It would be sufficient if everything was ready--not unless.

I dodged down a side street that led to Stevens's yard. I found the yard
without difficulty and a boy showed me which was Mr Stevens. When I had
been here before it was with his father that I had dealt; the son was a
stranger to me. I walked towards him, steadying my pace and trying to
make believe that there was no hurry.

"Morning, Mr Stevens," I said. "My name's Stenning. You've heard about
my charter of the _Irene_ from Mr Dorman?"

He laid down his awl and rubbed his hands together slowly. He was a
pleasant-looking bronzed man of about fifty, already a little stout. I
knew him by reputation as the crack sailor of small craft in the
estuary--or on the coast for that matter.

"Aye," he said slowly. "She's all ready for you. We looked for you
yesterday. The young lady was down puttin' your stores aboard." He mused
a little. "You'll have them two stone o' potatoes all sprouting in a
week. I told the young lady, I said, 'You don't want to buy all them
potatoes.' She would have it. She said you was to have two stone, and
two stone you've got."

He asked when I wanted to get away.

"At once," I said. "As soon as possible."

He looked at me. "Can't go afore one o'clock," he said. "Flood's still
making."

I nodded. "She'll run out over the flood with the engine," I said. "I've
got to get to Torquay either today or early tomorrow to pick up a
friend. If I get away at once I'll take the last of the tide with me
round the Start."

He nodded sagaciously. "You want to stand well in to Start Bay," he
said. "You'll be on a foul tide all afternoon. Rackon you'll not do much
good before six."

He entered on a long string of admonitions as to pilotage, and from that
drifted into an account of the stores in the _Irene_. I didn't dare to
hurry him very much, but presently I gently cut him short and suggested
that he should put me off to the vessel.

We got into his dinghy and he rowed me off to where she lay at her
moorings. I explained to him as we rowed out that my friend in Torquay
was bringing with him all my luggage, one reason why I was anxious to
get there that day. He shook his head. "You'll not do it without your
motor," he said. "You'll find the wind on the southeast outside, I
rackon."

The _Irene_ was a little black cutter of about seven tons. She had the
usual accommodation. Forward was the forecastle with a hatch to the
deck. There was a folding berth in there, but mostly it was dedicated to
cooking; one could sit upright to cook very comfortably. Aft of the mast
there was the saloon with a folding berth on each side. Aft of the
saloon one came on deck to the cockpit, and under the floor of the
cockpit, accessible from the saloon, was her engine, a seven-horsepower
Kelvin. Aft of the cockpit was a sail locker, in the counter.

I went all over her with Stevens. Everything was aboard; Joan Stevenson
had done her bit wonderfully well. Stevens said dryly that she had been
very particular. It was evident that he was making a considerable effort
to restrain his curiosity; he commented more than once on the futility
of lumbering up the cockpit with six cans of petrol when I could buy a
can every time I went ashore.

In half an hour I had gone over everything and was only anxious to be
off. He helped me to get the anchor short; then he went off in his
dinghy and got the kedge for me, while I uncast the tyers to the main.
He came back presently with the kedge and we stowed it in the cockpit
with its warp. Then we hoisted the main together. Finally, we got the
_Irene's_ dinghy on deck and lashed her down over the skylight.

"Anyone'd say you were going to France," he remarked cheerfully.

Then we got the motor going and eased her up to her anchor. I went
forward and broke it out; then while I stowed it he held on slowly down
the river. Finally, I came aft and took the helm. Stevens wished me
luck, got into his dinghy, cast off, and dropped astern. I gingered up
the engine a bit and stood on down the river. I was off.




                              CHAPTER FOUR


I stood away down the river under engine alone, heading dead into the
wind with the main flapping idly above my head. Salcombe is one of the
prettiest rivers in the west; I never drop down it without mentally
thanking God that I'm alive. I suppose I was doing that this time, but
all I can remember is the bright, hot sun that made the teak of the
little cockpit warm to the touch, the faint tarry smell of the vessel
and her gear, the white surf on the beaches that line the river, and the
dark firs above. We stood on slowly down the river, stemming the tide.
Slowly we drew up to King Charles's Castle; they used to stretch the
chain from there in the old days. A little farther on a bit of a swell
told me that I was crossing the Bar. Tennyson or somebody wrote a poem
about that Bar; with the police hard on my heels I can only say that
there was very little moaning at the Bar when I put out to sea.

I stood up to try and sniff the breeze. There was very little of it, but
what there was seemed to be pretty well due south. I edged the vessel
over to the west side of the entrance underneath Bolt Head, put her
about, left the helm, and went forward and broke out the jib. It flapped
lazily in the light airs; I decided to give her the balloon foresail and
went aft to get it out of the sail locker. I busied myself in setting
this for half an hour or so, the vessel ambling along gently through the
water with an occasional touch on the helm from hand or foot.

I got the sail bent at last, ran it up the forestay, and had the
satisfaction of seeing it fill and pull well. There may be a more
satisfactory light sail to carry on a small vessel, but if there is I
don't know it. When that was drawing to my satisfaction I went back to
the helm, shed some clothes, sat down in the cockpit, and considered the
position. It seemed to me that my best plan was to stand away out to sea
till I was eight or ten miles off shore and well clear of the three-mile
limit. I didn't really know if the police had the power to arrest me on
the high seas, but I didn't think they had. I stood on for the three
mile limit with the engine thumping pleasantly below, and the calm water
eddying away slowly beneath the counter. Presently it struck me to put
out a mackerel line.

For a long time I let the vessel slip along on her course, still under
engine. Then I lashed the helm and went below to get my lunch. I looked
over the stores in the lockers and found everything ready for me,
nothing forgotten. I put a kettle on the Primus for some coffee and
opened a tin of bully. There were some tomatoes there that I hadn't
ordered; I suppose she had thought of those herself. I made my coffee
and set it aside to cool while I looked for the brown sugar. I found the
sugar in one of those blue packets in an old biscuit-tin; one end of the
packet seemed to have been unwrapped. I opened it, and there was a bit
of white paper on top of the sugar, folded up into a little square. I
knew what it was as soon as I saw it.

I went and stood in the hatchway with my head and shoulders on deck
while I unfolded and read the note. It was quite short.

    "Dear Mr Stenning,

    "I do hope you'll find everything all right and as you wanted
    it. I think I've got everything. I hope you'll let me know how
    you got on when you get back, but I want to tell you now what a
    grand thing it's been of you to have done all this for us. I
    wanted to let you know how I feel about that, and to wish you
    the very best of luck.

                                                  "Joan Stevenson."

After a time I went back to my lunch.

I washed up my plate and cup and came on deck. We were then some two
miles off the Prawle and heading about southeast. The breeze was a
little stronger than it had been before lunch and I stopped the engine;
then, to my vast surprise, I found that I had caught a mackerel. I
dispatched him and put him in a bucket, and set to fishing in earnest.
In half an hour I had caught six, and then, as if Providence realized
that I had enough to be going on with, I caught no more for the rest of
the day.

I spent the afternoon overhauling the gear. I didn't know what sort of a
time I was going to have. If all went as it had gone so far, I should
have a very pleasant little cruise, if a trifle solitary; on the other
hand, if it blew up rough it would be damned unpleasant.

By the time I had come to an end of my little jobs we were a
considerable distance off the land; I could see the whole run of the
coast from Downend in the east to the low land behind Bolt Tail in the
west. The sea was very calm and the wind light; we were hardly making
any way through the water. At one time the Prawle had been abeam, but it
was now clear that we were being carried down Channel on the tide; I
decided to make the most of it and to put about, which I did with some
difficulty in the light wind. Then I thought it was a pity to waste what
might be the one calm day for a fortnight, and went below to commence an
orgy of cooking.

I studied the fresh-water tank as I peeled potatoes. It was even smaller
than I had thought it was; I didn't think that it would last more than a
week with the greatest economy. In any case, in eight days' time I
should be embarking Compton and remaining at sea for perhaps another
three or four days with the two of us aboard before I could land him in
France. It was pretty evident that I should have to land for water some
time or other; it was equally evident that it must be before I picked up
Compton. I didn't worry about it very much; it was no use making plans
too far ahead.

Presently I had tea.

There was a gentle little wind after tea, pushing me slowly along down
Channel. I came on deck and sat smoking at the helm, edging still a
little farther out from the land. A black, dishevelled-looking steamer
came bearing down on me from the east and passed me within a hundred
yards; she was a collier, and as she passed on her way an untidy-looking
gentleman in a bowler hat waved a carrot at me in friendly salutation
from the door of one of her deck-houses. After that the wind fell light,
and I got out Joan's note and read it over again.

As the evening came on I began to snug the vessel down for the night. I
took off the balloon foresail and ran up the staysail in its place; then
I rolled down a reef in the main, more as a precaution than because I
thought anything was coming. The glass was as steady as a rock, the wind
was in the east and the sun setting with every promise of fine weather.
When the reefing was done I began experimenting with various settings of
the helm and sheets to find her best setting for lying quietly, though I
had very little doubt that she would lie-to all right in a moderate
wind. My trouble would come in heavy weather, when I could hardly leave
the vessel to herself under sail while I slept. In that case my only
course would be to take all sail off her and lie-to a sea anchor. The
one essential point was that I should have plenty of sea-room.

I got her to lie all right after a little adjustment and left her to it
while I got my supper and made my bed on one of the folding berths. I
made my bed on the weather side in order that any sudden list of the
vessel beneath a strong puff of wind would wake me or tip me out of bed
on to the floor. Then I got the side lights filled, lit them, brought
them up on deck, and set them up on the shrouds. It was sunset, with the
sun setting into a clear sea as it had been the evening before--a
fine-weather sky if ever there was one. I was somewhere off Bigbury Bay
and about eight or ten miles out; I tried to see the Eddystone
lighthouse, but it was somewhere in the sunset and I couldn't pick it
up. I picked up the light quite easily as soon as it grew dark, as well
as the Start.

Scenic effects were by Vesper. I moved about the deck as it grew darker,
tidying up the odds and ends and putting a lashing on to every movable
object I could find. The wind was still light; it was freshening a
little with the sunset and settling into the usual steady little night
breeze. The vessel was still lying quietly; I went below and lit the
cabin lamp. Then I came up again and relashed the helm. It was dark by
this time but for a streak or two that lingered in the west.

I had never spent a night at sea alone before, and I found it lonely. I
stayed up on deck till I grew cold, watching the blink of the Eddystone;
I judged it to be about ten miles away, from the way in which the light
shone down on the horizon. But the cabin looked bright and cheerful as
the light streamed up through the hatch, and presently I left the deck
and went below.

I slept pretty well, considering all things. I was up on deck at about
half past one, and again at about four. Eddystone seemed much closer,
not more than five miles away; I judged that the tide was carrying us
down towards it. I was up again at dawn, but we were well clear of the
rock--indeed, not very much closer to it than we had been before. I
turned in again and went to sleep with an easy mind, and slept till
nine.

There was more wind when I got up than there had been the day before,
and the mill-pond calm was gone. I didn't think it was safe to let her
sail herself, so I left her hove-to while I dressed and got my
breakfast. Then I came up on deck with my pipe, made a tour of
inspection, and finally got her on a course down Channel and settled
down at the helm.

That was the first night of several that I spent at sea alone. That day
was June 10th, and a Sunday. The wind freshened up a bit during the day
and began to knock up a little sea, though it was nothing to worry
about. I lay-to for the night somewhere off the Dodman, between Fowey
and Falmouth and about ten miles off shore. I slept all night without
waking. In the morning I woke to find another calm; I drifted about all
day off Falmouth. I don't suppose I covered five miles between breakfast
and five o'clock. It didn't worry me at the time; I was off Helford and
all I had to do was to hang about there for a week or so till it was
time to land to collect Compton.

Towards the evening I began to get uneasy. It seemed to me that if I
were to hang about off Falmouth for a week the fishing-boats or the
pilots would be pretty sure to report me on shore; it was too public a
place altogether to loiter about in. Before I knew where I was somebody
would be coming off from Falmouth in a motor-launch to have a look at
me. I chewed this over for a little, and came to the conclusion that my
best plan would be to get out into the Atlantic past Land's End for a
bit; the weather seemed set fair and I wasn't afraid of the open sea. It
was obviously right to go that way and not back up Channel again. For
one thing it was less public, and for another it would be better to go
to the west of the place that I wanted to get to at a definite time,
which was Helford. In the Channel an easterly wind seldom lasts very
long, and this one had already held for several days. The probability
was that it would soon go round into the southwest; if that were to
catch me up Channel again I might have some difficulty in getting back
to Helford to time. It was obviously best from all points of view to
round the Lizard and stand out to sea for a bit.

It was obviously the right thing to do, but I must say that I had an
attack of cold feet before I could bring myself to do it. I never was a
proper sailor; the open sea always puts the wind up me, though of course
one is safer there than anywhere else in a small vessel. I am by nature
a coaster, I suppose. I only know that when a little breeze came up from
the southeast again and I stood out past the Lizard into the Atlantic, I
was about the loneliest creature on God's earth.

I stayed up late that night getting well off shore; it was about one
o'clock when I hove-to and went below. There was a long swell coming in
from the Atlantic, not very high, and the glass had gone down a little
bit. I interpreted this with my vague weather lore to mean a strong wind
out in the Atlantic, probably westerly. In anticipation of a change of
wind I turned in without taking off too many clothes.

The change didn't come, but trouble of another sort did. Early in the
morning, when it was just light, the jib sheet carried away. I was
roused by the crack and the beating of the sail; at the same time the
vessel began to wallow horribly as she fell away from the wind and came
up into it again all standing. I tumbled out on deck; the wind had
freshened up and was raising a cross sea against the swell that made her
very lively. I had left her for the night with more stern canvas than
was wise; I had to go forward and drop the peak before I could get her
to lie-to against the staysail. She lay all right like that while I went
forward and slacked off the jib halliards, putting the sail into the
water. Then I got out on the stern and worked the overhaul of the jib
till I had the sail on deck. She was dipping her nose into it in a
perfectly disgusting manner, so that every time she dipped the water
came over me green.

It took me an hour to get the mess cleared up. I was soaked to the skin
and very cold; the only spare clothes on board were an old sweater and a
pair of bags of Dorman's. I put these on and huddled into my blankets
again to try and get warm. Presently I gave it up, and went into the
little forecastle to hold the kettle on the Primus while I boiled it for
a mug of Bovril. The vessel was riding nicely, but she was throwing
herself about a good bit; I didn't dare to have the forecastle hatch
open for fear of a sea, so that by the time I'd boiled my kettle the
atmosphere in the forecastle was pretty ripe and I was too sick to drink
the Bovril. I took it on deck for a breath of fresh air, but by the time
I could face it it was cold.

It was quite light by this time, and I was somewhere off Mount's Bay. I
went back to my blankets, and presently I fell asleep and didn't wake
till ten. I cooked my breakfast in the cockpit rather than in the
forecastle, and managed to enjoy it in a limited sort of way.

I got under way again soon after breakfast and spent the day at the helm
wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, with my clothes spread out and drying
in the sun. The easterly wind still held and we had a fine sail out of
the mouth of the Channel. There was very little incident that day. I
passed the Wolf lighthouse during the afternoon, going about three miles
to the south of it in order to avoid the set of the tide into the Irish
Sea.

That day was Tuesday. I got a sharp reminder about my water supply in
the evening, when the tank was so empty that the water in it made a
persistent thundering noise in the forecastle. I tried to plumb it to it
see how much there was left, but failed on account of the motion of the
vessel; by banging on the outside I judged it to be about half full. I
thought about this as I cooked my supper. Evidently I should have to
land for water in the next day or two. It seemed to me that the only
place on the mainland that was suitable for watering was the Helford
River, where I was due to pick up Compton in a week's time. To land
would mean that I must leave the vessel unattended; that meant
anchoring. It would have to be carried out at night. The only places in
the neighbourhood where I could safely run in at night and anchor the
vessel were Falmouth Harbour and the Helford River.

I thought about this for a long time that evening, sitting in the
hatchway after supper. The more I thought about it the less I liked the
idea. I was to pick up Compton at Helford. I didn't want to draw
attention to the place beforehand; however carefully I went about my
watering, somebody was pretty sure to notice that a vessel had come into
the river after dark and had slipped away before morning. If there was
any hue and cry for me on the coast, that wouldn't do me any good when I
wanted to use Helford for picking up Compton.

Besides, the only well I knew at Helford was in the middle of the
village, too far up the river and too conspicuous for my purpose. I
couldn't go wandering all round the countryside in the dark looking for
water.

The bold course might be the best; to sail straight into Falmouth
Harbour soon after dark with all lights and sailing lights displayed,
anchor in the yacht anchorage off the town, and set a riding light in
the normal manner. I could leave a light burning in the saloon, row
ashore, and get my water at the fish quay. I didn't think anyone would
dream of challenging me. The chief trouble would lie in getting away
again. A yacht getting under way in the middle of the night would arouse
suspicion at once, and once the cry was up a motor-boat could catch me
three times over before I got to the Black Rock at the entrance. I
shouldn't dare to wait in Falmouth till dawn.

I thought of France. I didn't know the coast of France very well, but I
had very little doubt that I could smell my way by chart into some place
where I could get water. The trouble there was that I hadn't a passport
or papers of any sort either for myself or for the vessel. The Customs
would probably compose the first bunker; I might get hung up under
arrest while they made inquiries. And France was rather far away.

I thought it over for a long time and came to the conclusion that the
safest place to water would be the Scillies. I had visited the Scillies
several times before in small vessels. They were by no means a perfect
haven when secrecy was essential. I shouldn't dare to attempt any of the
entrances to the roadsteads in darkness; it would have to be a daylight
show, and that in itself made me hesitate. On the other hand, I did know
one cove where I could lie safely and that wasn't overlooked by any
house. And there was water close by.

The Scillies consist of a group of six large islands and a number of
small rocks, all roughly grouped around a central lagoon that is open to
the west. All of the six large islands are inhabited save one--White
Island, that lies roughly parallel with Pendruan, the most northerly of
the islands. White Island is about as large as Pendruan; it remains
uninhabited because of the barren nature of the soil, being, in fact,
very little but a rock of granite. Pendruan, a few hundred yards to the
south, is rather more fertile and provides grazing for a few sheep;
there are two cottages on the southern side. Between the two islands
there is an anchorage that is entered from the northeast, unbuoyed, but
not difficult to get into. I had been in it two or three times before;
in westerly winds it makes a very calm anchorage, with the disadvantage
that you have to row the dinghy three miles to St. Mary's to get stores.
Part of the anchorage is overlooked by Round Island lighthouse; I should
have to take my chance of that.

[Illustration: Scilly Isles (Northern Portion)]

I thought about it for a long time, and came to the conclusion that that
was the only practicable place to water. It was less risky than any of
the alternatives, even though it would have to be a daylight show. It
seemed to me that I might very well run in there early in the morning,
water from Pendruan, and get away after an hour or so without question.
I should have to do that as soon as possible, but already it was nearly
dark. I should have to get near the Scillies tomorrow and lie off for
the night, being ready to slip in to the anchorage with the first light.

I lay the vessel to for the night and went below. We were about eight or
ten miles south of the Wolf, say thirty miles from the Scillies. I had a
nasty fright about steamers that night. Soon after I had gone below I
heard one of them thumping along quite close, and turned out on deck to
see an old tramp pass within fifty yards of me. I was lying right in the
track of vessels bound up and down Channel, as well as those bound up
the Irish Sea from the south. There was nothing to be done about it; I
couldn't stay up on deck all night burning flares at them. I had a bad
attack of wind-up that night, and it was some time before I got to
sleep.

I got my breakfast early next morning, and made a long study of the
chart before I let draw. The anchorage between White Island and Pendruan
is divided into two parts by a rocky ledge between the two islands,
covered by only a foot or two of water at low tide. The part that I
proposed to anchor in was the eastern end of the strait, the western
side beyond the ledge being of uneven depth and rocky bottom. I had
anchored in the eastern end before when cruising with Dorman, but had
never had occasion to make a great study of the chart; Dorman had known
the place too well to bother about charts. Now to my surprise I found
that it was sufficiently important to have a name--White Sound. I
studied the approaches to it for a long time, working out the various
lighthouse bearings in order that I might be able to sail right up to
the entrance in the dark and slip inside with the first light. There
should be little difficulty, I thought, in doing that if the night were
fine, though I knew that I should have strong and variable tides to
contend with as I approached the islands.

I finished making my notes, but before putting the chart away ran my eye
over the various features of the group, noticing particularly the course
that would have to be taken by a motor-boat coming from St. Mary's to
intercept me. What I saw cheered me considerably. From the summit of
Pendruan I should be able to see any boat approaching a good half-hour
before it could get to me. That made me reasonably safe, the well being
on the summit of the island. I thought that if I saw anyone coming while
I was watering I should stand some chance of being able to get away to
sea before they reached White Sound.

Then, in a final glance at the map before putting it away, I saw
something that checked my breath for a moment and sent me straight back
to the house at Stokenchurch. I have said that I was surprised to see
that the eastern half of the straight between White Island and Pendruan
had a name. I now saw that the western end of the strait, beyond the
rocky ledge, was differently named.

The western part was called Marazan Sound.

I remember that I sat quite still and looked at that for a bit. Then I
lit a pipe and looked at it again. There it was in print as plain as
anything--Marazan Sound. I must have sat there for a long time, but
presently I put the chart away, went on deck, and got the vessel on a
course about northwest. I settled down at the helm and sat there all
day; all day I puzzled the problem that had suddenly come upon me. I
knew that Joan and Compton had been talking about Marazan while I was
writing my report on the crash; I had even written the word down in my
report by mistake. In the same connexion they had spoken of Mattani or
Mattarney. Now with this evidence before me I was nearly sure that the
word Marazan that I had overheard had been coupled with the word Sound.

I didn't give much weight to that impression, of course, but I found the
whole matter sufficiently disturbing as it was. I had actually written
down the word in exactly the same spelling as it now appeared on the
chart. Two possibilities that could not be overlooked suggested
themselves. One was that I had seen the word on the chart some time
before, and my ears had twisted some similar-sounding name to fit the
name I knew. I thought that damned unlikely. The other possibility was
that there might be more than one Marazan. One would expect names like
that in Spain, along the borders of the Mediterranean, in Mexico, or
anywhere in South America. I knew, too, that there was a Marazion in
Cornwall.

I can't say that I thought very much of either of these possibilities.
The note that I had had in Exeter definitely connected Mattani with the
business that Compton had on the 15th. That business was in England--or
in the British Isles. Marazan was connected with Mattani; it seemed
reasonable to suppose that Compton's business was in some way connected
with Marazan. It was too much to assume that there were two places in
the British Isles with the same outlandish name.

I began to consider whether it was altogether wise of me to go to the
Scillies. If this Marazan Sound was by any chance the place of Compton's
business--the day after tomorrow--I should probably do much better to
keep clear. Then, quite suddenly, I realized that I was on the wrong
track altogether. I knew this Marazan Sound. It was a broad pool of
enclosed water, entirely isolated, of such a rocky bottom and uneven
depth that no vessel drawing more than two feet of water could enter it
or lie in it except at high tide. There were two cottages on the far
side of Pendruan, but nothing that could by any possible stretch of
imagination hold any business interest for Compton. No, it was clear
that I had gone wrong somewhere in my chain of deductions. I decided to
put the matter out of my head and to carry on with my plan of watering
in White Sound.

The wind changed in the afternoon and began to draw into the southwest.
I didn't mind much about this; I had been very lucky to have held the
wind for so long and I had plenty of time to get to the Scillies before
dawn, even if it were to draw dead ahead. I sailed on all day, and
suddenly at about six o'clock I saw the islands broad on my beam and at
a distance of about ten miles. I can remember that they looked very
beautiful in the evening light, very pink and hazy and low on the
horizon of a deep blue sea. Clearly the tide had carried me off my
course to the northward; I was too inexperienced in the navigation of
these waters to have made allowance for that. I altered course more to
the west and stood on towards the northern extremity of the islands,
which I took to be White Island. I hove to presently and cooked some
food in anticipation of an all-night watch, and when I came up on deck
again, the lighthouses were winking all around. It was a beautifully
clear night. I took my bearings carefully from the lights, in
consultation with the chart. I decided that the right position for me to
get into before dawn was with the Round Island light northwest by
half-north, and the Seven Stones northeast.

I'd never done that sort of jiggering about by compass in the dark
before, and I didn't like it a bit. I got the wind right up as I drew
closer to the islands, though I knew that the chart showed clean ground
to within half a mile of Pendruan. As we closed the islands I had to
force myself to stand inshore. Finally, at about two in the morning I
got on my Seven Stones bearing and beat down it in very short tacks till
I brought Round Island to west by south. Farther than that I could not
bring myself to go, being afraid of an error in the compass that would
bump me on to something sharp. Looking back on it, I'm only surprised
that I had the nerve to stand in as far as that.

The day began to break at last after a most miserable night; as soon as
I could see a couple of hundred yards I started up the engine and stood
in towards the land. I saw as I drew close that I wasn't lying badly for
White Sound, though I was rather farther out than I had intended. I
think I must have had a tide under me, for I drew up to the land
remarkably quickly, and the dawn was hardly grey when I was passing
between the twin rocks at the entrance to the Sound.

I dropped anchor, as quietly as possible, at about half past four. The
sun was not yet up; I made haste to roll the jib and lower down the
mainsail. I shall always remember that anchorage as I saw it on that
grey morning; I was hungry and very sleepy, I remember, and a little
sick through working all night without proper food. There was a flat,
grey calm over the anchorage; it was strange to me to feel the stillness
of the vessel after so many days at sea. A few gulls were calling and
wheeling about the rocks of White Island; I stood for a moment or two
looking around the islands and the beaches. The place looked cold and
ominous in the half light.

It struck me that I might have to get away in a hurry in an hour or two;
so I didn't make much of a harbour furl of the main, but left it on the
deck with only a tier on the gaff. Then I refilled the petrol tank of
the engine in readiness for a quick getaway; finally, I got the dinghy
over the side and put the canvas water-breaker in her.

By the time I had done this the sun was up. I was relieved to see that
as I was lying now the hull of the vessel was hidden from the
lighthouse, though I had no doubt that they could see her mast rising
above the low-lying islands. They would probably report the presence of
a vessel in White Sound to the harbour authorities during the day, but
it was unlikely that they would connect the vessel with Compton, being
unable to see the hull. That meant that I ought to be safe for several
hours, and that I should be able to take my time over watering.

I went below and had breakfast, or as much of it as I could face. I must
have been pretty confident that there was no need to hurry, because I
remember that the cooking and eating of it took a long time. I was very
sleepy. I must have been conscious of the necessity for getting water
aboard without too much delay, though, for I went off to get the water
and left my breakfast things unwashed all over the saloon. That was
brought home to me later.

I had to make two journeys for the water. The spring was on top of the
island; the water dripped from an overhanging rock on the south side and
ran away in a little trickle to the sea. I had only one canvas
water-breaker; that was a big one, too big for me to carry single-handed
from the spring to the dinghy. I should only be able to fill it half
full--say seven or eight gallons on each journey.

I tumbled into the dinghy, cast off, and rowed in to the beach. The
north shore of Pendruan is a long beach of sandhills petering out into
the short turf and bracken of which the island is composed. This beach
is only interrupted in the middle, where a rocky point juts out at the
beginning of the shallow bridge of rocks that separates White and
Marazan Sounds opposite to the little island that they call the Crab
Pot. I rowed in to the beach, drew the dinghy up a little way on the
sand, shouldered the water-breaker, and went ploughing up through the
loose, dry sand till I got up on to the short turf above. Dozens of
rabbits fled scurrying at my approach.

From the top of Pendruan I looked out southwards over all the islands of
the group. The central lagoon, the Road, lay straight in front of me
with the islands clustered round it on either side. There was a small
sailing-dinghy crossing from Tresco to St. Mary's three miles down the
Road; apart from her I could see no vessels nor any signs of life upon
the islands. There were houses, I knew, upon this island of Pendruan,
but they were hidden from where I stood and I didn't propose to go in
search of them.

I found the spring easily enough; indeed, the labour of watering a
vessel in White Sound is well calculated to impress the position of the
spring upon one's memory. I set my breaker down in the puddle and
unlashed the mouth, and directed the stream into it with a bit of slate.
It took an age to fill. It was well after half past seven when I tied up
the mouth again, heaved it up on to my back, and set off for the dinghy.

I rowed off and emptied the water into the tank. I noted that the
sailing lights were still in the shrouds; I took them down and put them
in the forecastle, and that started me on a round of odd jobs. I thought
about washing up my breakfast things, and decided that I would get the
other load of water first. After half an hour or so of tidying up I set
off again for the shore. I didn't hurry myself particularly, so that by
the time I got to the top of the island again I suppose it was between
nine and half past. I strolled up over the skyline with the breaker on
my shoulder, and there I got the shock of my life. There was a small
motor-boat on the beach not a quarter of a mile away, with a man sitting
in the stern baling out her bilge with a tin.

I looked at him for a minute, then set down the breaker and began to
fill it. There was only one thing to be done, to go on filling up with
water in the hope that I should be taken for a _bona fide_ yachtsman,
not an escaped convict. While the water trickled into the bag I studied
the man in the boat. His baling finished, he produced a bit of waste,
and began swabbing about in the boat polishing the seats and the
gunwale. It was pretty evident that he had brought somebody to the
island on a visit, who had left the boat and gone ashore while the boat
waited for him.

By now the visitor might be sitting in the cabin of the _Irene_. The
thought made me feel rotten.

There was nothing to be done, I decided, but to try and brazen it out.
After all, I'd done nothing wrong--or nothing that anyone was likely to
discover. I owed it to Compton to keep up the pretence for as long as
possible, to gain all the time for him that I could. More than that I
could not do; if they arrested me I should be powerless to help him any
more, and there would be an end of my part in his fortunes.

I stayed by the well till the breaker was as full as I could carry, then
tied it up, slung it over my shoulder, and staggered back with it over
the hill. I set it down when I came in view of White Sound and took a
long look round. I was reassured. There was nobody in sight; the dinghy
lay undisturbed upon the beach and the vessel at her anchor. It struck
me that it was possible that the visit of the motor-boat had nothing to
do with me after all. I might have been exaggerating my own importance.

I ploughed down through the soft sand to the beach and lowered the
breaker into the dinghy. There was nothing else for me to do ashore, and
the sooner I got away to sea again the better. At the same time, I was
very loath to go. The anchorage is a delightful one; I would willingly
have stayed there for a couple of days instead of beating about in the
open sea with the wind up half the time. There was the matter of the
butter, too; I was out of butter and very nearly out of margarine. There
remained only a greasy and disgusting mass of lard....

It was no good repining; it would have been asking for trouble to visit
St. Mary's to buy stores. I had enough lard to see me through, and it
was time I got away to sea. I turned towards the dinghy, and then I
pulled up short. There was a girl standing on the little point of rocks
along the beach, about a couple of hundred yards away. She was looking
in my direction.

Instantly my mind flew back to the motor-boat. I was tremendously
relieved at the sight of the girl. The Scillies in the summer are full
of visitors; clearly the motor-boat had brought no more significant
cargo to the island than a party of holiday-makers on a picnic. This
girl would be a straggler or an advance guard; somewhere in the
background would be father carrying the lunch and the bathing things.

My fears had been groundless. Instantly I began to consider whether I
couldn't afford a day on shore on this island--or half a day at any
rate. I might walk round the island in the morning and get away to sea
in the evening. It would be a change from sitting at the helm all day. I
sat on the bow of the dinghy scrabbling the sand up into little heaps
with my feet while I thought about it.

I kept an eye on the girl. She came down from the point after a little
and began to walk along the beach towards me. I watched her as she came;
I can remember noticing that she was very slim, and that she walked
lightly.

I stared more intently at her as she drew closer ... and then I knew
that at all costs I should have kept clear of Marazan Sound.

She looked up as she came near. I didn't go to meet her, but waited her
coming, sitting on the bow of the dinghy on the sand.

"Good morning, Miss Stevenson," I said quietly. "I'm afraid I've made a
muck of this."




                              CHAPTER FIVE


She didn't speak at once. I remember that I sat watching her and waiting
for her to say something, wondering what she would say, feeling a most
almighty fool. I remember that there were kittiwakes crying and wheeling
above us, and coloured butterflies flitting in and out of the speargrass
of the sandhills, and a hot sun that made the water blue and sparkling,
the sand white. I remember that she was wearing an old grey felt hat
crammed down over her short hair, and a brightly coloured scarf, and the
same brown jersey that I had seen her in at Stokenchurch. It had a
little hole on one shoulder. I remember all that as if it had been
yesterday; if I had the touch for painting I could sit down and paint
her now as I saw her then, with the blue and white water running up
behind her. I say that I could paint her as I saw her then, but the
portrait would be painted better now.

At last she spoke. "What are you doing here, Mr Stenning?" she inquired
evenly. There was a note in her voice that stung me up a bit.

I raised my head and looked her straight in the eyes. "I'm getting water
for my cruise," I said. "Now I'm going to be rude. What are you?"

I guessed that that might be something of a home-thrust; she looked at
me narrowly for a moment, but didn't speak. I got out my pipe and filled
it slowly while I thought things over a bit; by the time I threw the
match down on the sand I had made up my mind--more or less.

"See here, Miss Stevenson," I said. "I'm going to speak pretty plainly.
I'm getting mixed up in a lot of funny business that I don't understand
and that I don't like. Don't mistake me. Compton pulled me out of a
damned unpleasant crash, and I'm out to help him all I can. I've already
broken the law for him in every position. If the police got me now they
could plant about five sentences on me for various things I've done
since I shot off on this trip. I don't care two hoots about those. What
I do care about is that there's a lot going on behind the scenes that
you know all about and that Compton knows all about, and that I know
damn-all about. I mean Mattani, and Marazan, and all that."

She started. "Who told you about Mattani?"

"You did," I said. "At Stokenchurch. You were talking about it so loud
that evening while I was writing my report that I couldn't help picking
up bits of it. I told you then that I didn't want to know what you were
up to. Well, I've changed my mind. I want to know what I'm in for. That
is, if I'm to carry on. If you like I'll give up now and go home. I
don't want to do that; I'd very much rather carry on and see Compton
through this thing and out of the country. I mean that. But if I do
that, then I've got to know what's going on. You see? You'll forgive me
speaking straight to you about this. It seems to me that you've got
something fishy going on here, something that's a thoroughly bad show.
Something that's dangerous. I ran up against it in Exeter. Now if I'm to
carry on I want to know what I'm in for."

She was evidently puzzled. "In Exeter?" she said.

I told her about the note that I had found in my bed addressed to
Compton. "That's the sort of thing that shakes a man," I said. "It put
the wind up me properly." Then I told her how I had been knocking about
the Channel till I had run short of water. "I didn't see how this
particular Marazan Sound could possibly have any interest for you or
Compton," I said. "I thought that there must be another one or that I
hadn't heard right. It seems that I was wrong."

She nodded. "This is the place," she said. "You know it well?"

"Not well," I said. "I've anchored here once or twice."

She turned, and looked out over the blue, rippling water to where the
_Irene_ was lying quietly at her anchor. "Will you take me on board?"
she said.

I pushed the dinghy down the sand, paddled out with her through the
shallows till she floated, and rowed off to the vessel. The saloon was
in a terrible state. I had used it as a lumber store during the days
that I had been at sea; on the floor of the saloon was all the movable
gear from the decks, the buckets, petrol cans, boom crutch, companion,
and all the hundred and one oddments that are invariably falling
overboard unless they are below. The remains of my breakfast lent a
sordid appearance to the scene. I got the bucket and chucked the plates
into it, and passed it through into the forecastle. Then I came back to
the saloon and cleared a space on one of the settees for her to sit
down.

"You won't mind if I do the lamps," I said, and began to swab round one
of the sidelights with a pad of waste.

There was a silence, so far as there is ever silence on a small vessel.
A bee had invaded the cabin and was noisily investigating a jam-pot; I
suppose he had come from distant Tresco. The vessel swung slowly on her
heel with a faint grating and a scrunch from the anchor chain. A warm
patch of sunlight slid across the floor and up my leg; away aft the
rudder was clucking gently in the pintles. Presently the girl spoke.

"Denis saw Mattani yesterday," she said. "I am expecting him in Hugh
Town by this evening's boat."

I grunted. "And who may Mattani be?" I inquired.

She didn't answer; I could see that she hadn't got over my arrival in
the Scillies yet. That seemed to have shaken her. She was suspicious,
though what she suspected me of doing I couldn't make out.

"If I tell Denis that you are here," she said, "will you meet him this
evening?"

I glanced up at her. "Very glad to," I remarked. "But what if some
inquisitive person comes and asks me who I am before this evening?"

"You mean if the police have followed you?"

I nodded.

"I think that would be the best thing that could happen now," she said
wearily "--for everybody."

I nearly dropped the lamp. "I'm damn sure it wouldn't be the best thing
that could happen to me," I said indignantly. And then I stopped,
because I saw that she was serious. I think it was then that I first
realized that I was no longer playing a game of hide-and seek that I
could take up and throw down when I liked. I hadn't taken this business
seriously up to date; to me it had been merely the excuse for a holiday
of a novel and diverting kind. Now I was beginning to see it
differently. The first thing I saw was that though I might not have been
taking it very seriously, other people had; in this girl's face I could
see that she was most miserably anxious. Whatever it was that she was
afraid of, she had the wind right up. I was most awfully sorry for her.

I filled the little tank with paraffin from a can and set it in the
lamp. "See here, Miss Stevenson," I said, "I know you think I'm playing
some funny business on you. Well, I'm not. I don't know what it is that
you think I'm up to, but whatever it is, I'm not doing it. That's the
first thing. The second thing is this. I'd better see Compton this
evening. I suppose your trouble is that you can't tell me about Mattani
till you've seen him. Is that it?"

"That's it," she said.

"Well, don't let that worry you," I remarked. "I'll see him this evening
and we'll have a chat about things."

She hesitated. "I think you ought to know, Mr Stenning," she said, "that
he carries a pistol--as a precautionary measure."

I laughed.

"Well," I said. "I hope he's got a licence for it."

On deck one of the halliards was flapping merrily against the mast;
through the planking of the hull I could hear the water tinkling along
the topsides. I finished cleaning the second lamp and deposited them
both in the forecastle.

"Cheer up, Miss Stevenson," I said. "Really, I'm only a sheep in wolf's
clothing, though I don't expect you to believe me."

"I believe you now," she said. "At first I thought you must be one of
Mattani's people."

I laughed. "Well, don't you go taking any chances," I said. "You say
Compton arrives by the afternoon boat. I'll be on the look-out for him
on the beach there any time after six o'clock. Then he can tell me
what's happening if he wants to, or else--well, anyhow, he'll let me
know what he wants to do. Will that be all right?"

"That will do, I think," she said. "He'll have to come here, anyway."

"You might tell him to keep his finger off the trigger," I observed.
"Nasty dangerous things--I never did hold with them. Though it would be
almost worth while being punctured to find out what it is that you find
so interesting about this place."

She moved out of the saloon and went up on deck into the little cockpit.
I followed her. On deck she stood for a moment looking over towards
Marazan.

"It's quite shallow over there, isn't it?" she said.

"I think so," I replied. "A small boat can get about in it all right."

"Not a steamer?"

"It depends how big she was."

"Seven hundred tons."

"Good Lord, no. I suppose a seven-tonner could get in at high tide, but
she couldn't lie there when the tide fell. It's no earthly use as a
harbour, if that's what you mean."

"No," she said wearily. "That's what the boatman told me. I didn't
believe him till I saw it. But we know that it has a use. Mattani uses
it, because it's so quiet, I suppose, so desolate."

I wrinkled my brows a bit over this. "What does he use it for?" I said.

She shook her head. "I don't know. But Denis may have found out by this
time."

I turned and looked out over the pool, mellow and rippling in the
morning light. "He could have a pretty good bathe in it, anyway," I
remarked, "if he's that way inclined. Fishing, too--I bet those rocks
outside are full of conger. Birds ... study of wild life." I knocked out
my pipe upon the rail and turned to face her. "I don't think we shall do
much good discussing it till I've had a talk with your cousin. But I'd
like you to know that whatever he has to say, you can count me in on
this."

She turned away. "I don't see why we should drag you into our--our
family dissensions," she muttered.

I got the dinghy up and rowed her ashore to the beach. She walked up
over the island towards her boat; I sat in the dinghy rocking gently in
the shallows and watched her till she was out of sight. Then I put back
to the vessel. She was lying quietly to her anchor; as a precautionary
measure I let out a little more chain. After that I furled the mainsail.
Then I sat down for a moment in the cockpit, and stared absently down
into the saloon. Apparently the urgent necessity for me to lie low was
over; I was beset by an uneasy feeling that there was a storm of some
sort brewing that was going to burst before the police had time to get
upon my track. I've never been a man to go about looking for trouble;
I'm not like that. This time it seemed to me tolerably clear that I'd
gone and got myself mixed up in some unpleasantly violent and illegal
business that was intimately connected with my present anchorage. I
didn't like it a bit.

Joan Stevenson had warned me that Compton was carrying arms. That
worried me; half unconsciously I began to cast about for weapons of
defence on the _Irene_. I only succeeded in unearthing a battered and
unreliable-looking fire extinguisher. This I rejected.

It struck me that it would be a good plan if I were to go and have a
look at Marazan for myself. There was no reason why I shouldn't go
ashore during the afternoon and walk along the beach; if necessary I
could explore the Sound in the dinghy. I thought I should see just as
much from the shore, though, as from the dinghy. As it happened, I saw
more.

I went ashore in the afternoon after washing up and left the dinghy on
the sand opposite the vessel. The whole of the north side of Pendruan is
a sandy beach on either side of the point of rocks that juts out
opposite the Crab Pot. I climbed over this point and began to walk along
the southern shore of Marazan. I saw nothing in any way out of the
ordinary. The place was very desolate; a broad stretch of water, roughly
circular, about three-quarters of a mile in diameter, lying between low
islands almost destitute of vegetation. The sun was bright, and all over
the lagoon I could see the pale green image of bare granite very close
beneath the surface, or the glassy calm over a patch of weed. I judged
that there was very little to hinder a boat that drew not more than
three feet of water; for a larger craft the Sound seemed to me to be
impossible.

I went on to the end of Pendruan and the little strait that separates
Pendruan from White Island. I expected to find a heavy sea breaking up
against the western side of the islands with the southwesterly wind, but
to my surprise the swell was not heavy and it would have been easily
possible to row an open boat out from the entrance to the Sound without
shipping a drop. I learned later that the set of the tide round the
islands renders the entrance relatively calm in the worst weathers, a
point that would be more appreciated by the islanders if it were
possible to anchor a boat in Marazan.

I came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be seen at the
entrance and started to walk back along the beach, half with an idea to
take the dinghy and row about the Sound. I was only a hundred yards or
so from the entrance when I saw something on the beach that I took to be
a dead bird. I don't know what impulse of curiosity it was that made me
go and examine it--idleness, I suppose. I turned it over with my foot,
and then I stooped to examine it more closely. It wasn't a dead bird at
all. It was a mass of oily mutton cloth, such as mechanics use. It was
heavy to lift; as I turned it over out fell a pair of engineer's pliers.

I spent a long time examining these. The cloth was covered with blown
sand upon the outside, but the fabric was good and undamaged by weather,
delicate though it was. The oil on it was still moist and
amber-coloured; I must say that puzzled me no end. I came to the
conclusion that the rag could not have been there longer than two, or at
the most three, months. It could not, for example, have been there all
the winter. The pliers, too, were in quite good condition, a little
rusty but by no means seriously so. I was turning these over when it
struck me that there was something curious about the sand on which they
had been lying. It was above high-water mark and the sand was loose and
powdery, but where the rag had lain the sand was heavy and discoloured.
I set to work and cleared off the loose sand to the depth of an inch or
two over an area of about six feet square. And then it was obvious;
indeed, I had already suspected as much. The sand immediately around the
spot where I had found the rag had been soaked in oil.

That was all I found. The place was where the sand sloped gently down
into the water. It seemed to me that they must have used the beach at
some time for the purpose of repairing a motor-boat. It would be
possible, I thought, to haul a small motor-boat out of the water there
and slide her above highwater mark--if anyone wanted to carry out
repairs in this outlandish spot. I even went so far as to climb up on to
the bank above the beach to try to discover traces of any block and
tackle with which they might have hauled her from the water.

Looking back upon that now, I am amazed that I could have been such a
fool.

I walked back to the dinghy and rowed off to the vessel, taking the
cloth and the pliers with me. I deposited them in a corner of the engine
locker and began to overhaul the gear on deck. During the afternoon I
cooked intermittently; that is to say, I put on things to boil and
forgot about them while I was on deck. In this way I amassed a
considerable quantity of boiled potatoes and a leathery and unappetizing
suet pudding. The pudding turned my mind to matrimony. It is at sea, I
thought, that a wife is really a necessity--and here I may say at once
that I belong to that stern school of yachtsmen who hold that a woman's
place is in the forecastle. I suppose almost any woman can make a suet
pudding on dry land. A woman who can make a suet pudding over a Primus
stove in the forecastle of a six-tonner on an ocean passage is worth
marrying.

I supped upon bully and suet pudding garnished with treacle, smoked a
pipe, washed up the supper things, and saw that the lamps were in order.
There was still no sign of Compton. The light was failing fast; it was
about half past nine. I made all square below and went up on deck and
sat in the cockpit, waiting for something to happen. At about ten
o'clock I heard the sound of a motor at the entrance to White Sound, and
soon afterwards a small boat came into sight, the same that had brought
Joan to Pendruan earlier in the day. There were two men in it, one in a
heavy ulster and a soft hat that I knew was Compton.

I stood up as the boat came alongside and helped to fend her off. He had
a small bag at his feet; it seemed that he was coming aboard for the
night at least.

"Cheer-oh," I said. "I've been on the look-out for you since six."

"Sorry," he replied absently. "I got hung up in Hugh Town."

He spoke to the man in the boat, who touched his cap, pushed off,
started his engine again, and headed away towards the entrance. Compton
and I remained standing in the cockpit, and watched the boat as she drew
towards the point, leaving a long smooth wash behind her, watched her
till she vanished behind the land. Then I turned to him.

"Had any dinner?" I inquired.

I had only seen him at Stokenchurch before. I had thought then, if I had
thought about it at all, that I had seen him in unfavourable
circumstances, as a man who was a fugitive. One doesn't expect a man to
look his best then. But now, meeting him again only a week later, I was
shocked at the change that seemed to have come over him in that short
time. I knew that he was about the same age as myself, if anything a
little younger, but the man that stood with me in the cockpit was
already old. His face was lined and grey. There was no spring about his
carriage; he moved with the unsteadiness of age--I think with something
of the dignity of age as well. I was suddenly most frightfully sorry for
him. Whatever he'd been doing during the week, he'd had a pretty tough
time of it.

He turned forward. "I had dinner in Hugh Town with Joan," he said. "She
told me that I should find you here. I didn't think about you having to
call in for water. You couldn't have picked a better place."

"It's very desolate," I said.

He glanced at me, and nodded. "Very," he said quietly.

We went down into the saloon. I had no drink on board to offer him; the
best I could do was to put on the Primus for some coffee. When I came
back from the forecastle he had taken off his coat.

He refused a cigarette, but lit a pipe. "Joan tells me," he said, "that
you got a note that was meant for me--at Exeter, was it?"

I told him about it.

"What day was that?"

"Thursday evening--the evening of the day I started."

He nodded. "That was before I had seen Roddy," he said.

I resented the intrusion of another character. "I expect Miss Stevenson
told you my position," I said. "I don't know where I am in this matter.
There seems to be a lot more in it than I thought. I thought it was just
a simple matter of getting you out of the country. Apparently it's not
quite like that. Tell me, what are your plans now? I can put you in
France the day after tomorrow if you like."

He didn't answer directly; in the dim light of the cabin I thought I saw
him looking at me curiously. "I wonder what brought you into this?" he
said at last. "It might have been anyone."

He roused himself. "I've changed my mind. I'm not going to cut off
abroad. I'm taking your advice."

"My advice?" I said vaguely.

"I'm giving myself up to the police."

It was nearly dark outside. Framed by the coaming of the hatch, I could
see the stars beginning to show in a deep blue evening sky, without a
cloud. There would be a moon presently, I thought.

"I'm damn glad to hear it," I said. "When are you going to do it?"

"The sooner the better," he replied. "Before they get me--they must be
on my track by now. Perhaps tomorrow--or the day after. I've done all
that I wanted to now--all except the one point that isn't clear. Anyway,
I've got enough information now to break Roddy and his crowd if ever
they try to run another cargo."

I think I was very patient. All I said was: "Who the hell may Roddy be?"

"Rodrigo Mattani," he said quietly. "My stepbrother."

He leaned back into a corner of the settee and began to talk. I close my
eyes and I can see him now through a haze of smoke against a background
of charts, blankets, and flannel trousers, half seen in the dim light
from the cabin lamp, pale, tired, and a little bitter. I don't know what
I had expected to find at the bottom of this business--Romance,
Adventure perhaps--I can't say. I only know that whatever I had
expected, I was disappointed.

He told me that his mother had been a Fortescue, and had married a Baron
Mattani. There was one child, Rodrigo, born in Milan about forty years
ago. The Baron died a year or so later, and his wife went on living
quietly in her palazzo in Milan till Antony Compton sought her out and
married her. Then the trouble started. It had been the father's wish
that his son should be brought up as an Italian and a Catholic; Compton
was neither and the Baroness's Catholicism was nothing to write home
about. What happened was inevitable. Rodrigo was left largely in the
care of the Italian relations, paying occasional visits to his mother in
England; the Baroness returned to the country that she never should have
left. Compton himself was born, and a sister who was married. His father
and mother were still alive and lived somewhere in Surrey, not very far
from Guildford. He said that they were very old.

It was a common enough story of a mixed marriage. There was nothing
romantic about it, nothing to stir one up, merely rather a pitiful story
of misunderstandings with the foreign relatives, of irreconcilable
points of view. Estrangements grew up as they were bound to do, till at
the outbreak of war they were lucky if they heard of Rodrigo once in six
months. He was a journalist in Milan.

"He carried a fiery cross all the war, Dago fashion," said Compton, a
little sardonically. "You know the way they carry on. He was in the
ranks, of course--the infantry. I believe he did damn well, as a matter
of fact. But Lord--the stuff he used to write! He was the star turn of
his paper and they gave him space for as much patriotic drivel as he
could hock up. They made him editor while he was at the Front--the silly
mutts. You never saw such drivel...."

He mused a little. "It was all about Italia Irridenta, and
Avanti--Bravissimo--all the rest of it. You know how they go on."

Mattani, it appeared, had been with D'Annunzio in Fiume after the war,
but it was under Il Duce that he found his destiny. He was useful to Il
Duce and became a Ras. I wondered how he was useful, but Compton
enlightened me only by his silence. Certainly, in Mattani Il Duce found
a man of exceptional ability, considerable wealth, and peculiar
resources. He was the owner of a little tramp steamer and used to run
cargoes regularly from Genoa across the Atlantic, cargoes of wines and
spirits for the consumption of our thirsty brethren across the way.

It would have been better if his enterprise had stopped at alcohol. A
bootlegging organization, however, once set up, can deal with other
commodities than alcohol; from the first Mattani found himself dealing
with a considerable passenger traffic of those who were prepared to pay
treble fare for the privilege of entering the United States by the back
door. Moreover, very soon he found himself conducting an increasing and
profitable trade in several varieties of dope.

I don't know what it is about dope, but it gets me just where I live. I
don't know if it was always like that; I think I always had the wind up
of the stuff even before I saw what it did. I dare say that's
instinctive, but--there was a Flossie that I used to take about a good
bit just after the war. A most awfully pretty kid. I'd never seen it in
action before, and I had no idea that she was taking it till she tried
to pass it on to me. That is an old story now, and one that I don't much
care about remembering--and one, I dare say, that the Belgian doesn't
care about remembering that I threw clean through the window of Les
Trois Homards on to the roof of a taxi-cab out in the street, and his
dope after him. If I'd known that it was going to kill her in the end
I'd have--I don't know what I'd have done. But I never saw him again.

I don't know when it was that it occurred to Mattani that England wanted
dope just as badly as America, but he had already run two cargoes into
England when Compton got wind of the business. He told me that he had
tumbled on it while he was in Genoa on business of his own, quite by
chance. There was no secret in Genoa about the destination of the little
tramp with the peculiar equipment of lifeboats and davits--two whacking
great motor boats each as big as a Navy pinnace, each with a couple of
hundred horse-power in her. The Genoese were rather proud of the venture
and used to stand about in a little crowd on the quay watching the
cranes loading the stuff into her, perhaps in the faint hope that they
might one day drop one of the crates and break it open. He learned in
Genoa that the vessel sometimes made a detour from the true course for
America, but it was left to Mattani himself, in an expansive moment, to
let his stepbrother into a portion of the secret of the new enterprise.
One of his golden rules, apparently, was never to tell the whole truth
to anyone, and all that Compton really learned of any consequence was
the name Marazan. There, Mattani told him, it was transhipped and taken
to England in a way that was--oh, so clever. Just like that.

That was all he learned. He told me how he went back to England, to his
home near Guildford, to tell his mother all the news of Roddy that he
thought it was good for her to know. He digressed a little here, and
talked for what seemed a long time about a bit of land behind their
house that they wanted to buy in order to prevent their view of the
Downs from being built up. And then he went rambling on, and told me how
he took the car one Sunday morning and went off by himself over the
Hog's Back towards the south, desperately worried about Roddy. It was a
perfectly corking spring day, he said, one of those fresh sunny days
with a pale sky when the country looks simply wonderful. He said he went
on without bothering much about where he was going to till he found
himself in Winchester, dropped into the Cathedral and out again, and had
a very good lunch at one of the hotels. Then he went on and struck up
over the Downs to the east, and so on till he got to Petersfield, where
he had tea, and so home over Hindhead to Guildford in time for dinner.
And so, he told me, after dinner, when his father and mother were
playing piquet, it was easy for him to sit down and write to Roddy to
tell him that he'd got to leave England alone for the future.

He said that after that drive it was easy, but he must have known at the
time that it would mean--well, trouble of some sort. He said that at the
time he didn't care, and I think that was true. But his letter was a
threat. However courteously he may have put it, and I have no doubt that
he was very tactful, it could hardly be interpreted as anything but a
threat to lay information that would serve to locate a coastguard at
Marazan. And--one did not threaten Mattani.

He never got an answer to that letter, but within three weeks he was in
prison on a charge of embezzlement. He was very reticent about that; I
think he thought that I disbelieved him, for he didn't even say that it
was a put-up job. I went into that in some detail later, but I found out
very little. He had been in the habit from time to time of borrowing
money from his office till it was convenient for him to cash a cheque,
an imprudent proceeding that put him well within the reach of the law.
The sums involved had seldom exceeded ten pounds and had always been
replaced within a few days, till the three thousand was found to be
missing. They traced it through his account and produced his cheque
drawing it out again. And that was that. It may be that his defence was
hampered by some consideration for his mother--I don't know. They never
put their hands on the money. I think myself it was a put-up job. I
think he knew it was.

Quite abruptly, he began to tell me about his meeting with Mattani in
Leeds. I think that even then he was a little suspicious of me, a little
suspicious that if he were to tell me too much I might take matters into
my own hands. I never learned how it was that he had heard in prison
that Mattani was coming to England, or how it was that he got into touch
with him in Leeds. It is certain that there was a far wider organization
concerned in the distribution of the drugs than we ever managed to trace
out. Compton had met Mattani in Leeds only two days before, while I had
been beating about off the Lizard. I never managed to fill in the
account of how he had spent the intervening days, but I know now that
the meeting with his stepbrother in Leeds was arranged through the
medium of a retired butcher who lived in considerable comfort in
Surbiton. We persuaded the butcher to tell us that later.

He met Mattani at diner in the Station Hotel, Leeds.

I have often tried to picture this man Mattani to myself, tried to
imagine what he was like to deal with. The one outstanding feature about
him seems to have been his great personal charm of manner.

"If ever you have anything to do with Roddy," said Compton, "you'll find
him very pleasant to deal with. Very pleasant ... very good company.
I've tried him pretty far, I suppose, but he's always been the same. One
can depend on Roddy in that way. It almost reconciles one to him...."

Joan tells me much the same. She met him once or twice as a young man
before the war when she was a child, and her childish memories give me a
further clue to the man. She describes him as slight and pale, very
pleasant but very dominating, so that she was always a little afraid of
him. She remembers that he was intensely enthusiastic about Italy, and
that he had an ingenious parlour trick of carving a swan out of a piece
of cheese for her amusement. That is all that she can remember about
him, and it is little enough to go upon. I met him once myself, but not
to speak to.

I don't really know what Compton hoped to gain by meeting Mattani. It
seems to me that he must have known the character of the man, have known
that he was up against stronger forces than himself. I doubt if he
really knew what he hoped to gain himself. I think perhaps he thought
that he could induce his stepbrother to clear out of England--I think he
may have been as foolish as that. I cannot think that he was so foolish
as to threaten Mattani, but the threat was implied and he had sufficient
information in his hand at that time to put it into execution. There is
very little doubt of that. I think perhaps he may have spoken about
their mother.

Mattani, he remarked, was very glad to see him. He was full of concern
for his welfare, for his plight as an escaped convict. There must have
been a quiet play of implied threats here, I think, for Mattani had only
to speak to the waiters to see Compton arrested on the spot. However, he
passed over any little incidents of the moment that might have caused
unpleasantness between them, and busied himself with proposing plans for
Compton's future.

One can see the way he worked. Compton was an escaped convict, Mattani
one of the very few men in the world who could get him out of the
country and start him again in life, under a secure protection. He was
very genial, it seems, very optimistic. He said that there was a post in
Italy that lay within his gift, that really should be filled by an
Englishman, that would suit Compton down to the ground. He was to be an
Inspector of English in the Italian national schools. Mattani would see
that any unpleasantness with the English police was safely laid to rest
and Compton should be in Italy within a week, entering upon his new job
in the Department of Instruction at a salary of twelve hundred a year
sterling. He would live in Rome. For the time being he could camp out in
a suite of rooms on one of Mattani's palazzi; that was, until he
married. Italy was a pleasant country to live and work in, said
Mattani--far pleasanter than Leeds. It was also a pleasanter country to
marry in.

I expect it took Compton a little time to catch the drift of all this.
However, it seems that when he realized what his stepbrother was
proposing, his answer came bluntly to the point. He said that he didn't
want to go to Italy and he wasn't going. As for the matter that he had
come to Leeds to talk about, the dope smuggling, it would have to stop.

"You see, I told him straight out, we couldn't possibly have that sort
of thing going on in England," he remarked ingenuously.

I gathered that Mattani had laughed, and observed that it would
certainly be very pleasant for one family to have two brothers in gaol
at the same time.

I think by this time Compton must have realized that he was no match for
his stepbrother in the battle of wits. And there, so far as I can make
out, this curious interview came to an end, with nothing accomplished.
There were no witnesses of the meeting save the waiters at the hotel; so
far as I can make out Mattani told nobody what had occurred. I have to
search my memory, as I have searched it so many times, to recall the
words and phrases that Compton used that night as he told me this story
in his queer, rambling way, digressing every now and then into
irrelevant anecdotes, talking away the quiet hours of darkness.

That was all his tale. He had left Leeds firm in the intention to give
evidence against his stepbrother and put a stop to this smuggling of
drugs. He had come to the Scillies, not greatly caring whether he was
detected, resolved to give himself up to the police as soon as the one
link in the chain of evidence was established. He wanted to know what it
was that happened at Marazan, and that he had been unable to find out.
He had fixed upon that as the salient point of the scheme; until it was
discovered how the stuff reached England he could not feel that he had
anything but a case of suspicion against Mattani. It was important to
find out that.

He told me that Joan had offered to go to the Scillies to see the place
while he was in Leeds. That was how she had come to be there; her job
had been to make such tactful inquiries as she was able, particularly
among the lighthouse-keepers on Round Island. I gathered that she had
discovered precisely nothing. To me it was pathetic to see the way in
which these two had gone about this business, so different from anything
that they had had to do before. They were so helpless, so unfitted for
the job. I could see clearly that Mattani could make rings round them; I
have no doubt that he knew their every movement, that they were closely
watched. One can see now that that must have been the case.

I told Compton about the rag and pliers that I had found on the beach,
and got them out and showed them to him. He sat for a long time
fingering them, turning them over in his hands, evidently trying to link
them up with anything that he had seen or heard about the place. I went
through into the forecastle and put on the kettle for a hot drink before
turning in; it was about half past one in the morning. When I came back
he had left the cabin, and I saw him standing in the cockpit. He was
looking out over Marazan.

I went on deck. The vessel was lying very quietly; it was a bright
moonlight night, not very cold. I had no riding-light up, and didn't
intend to set one in such an anchorage as this. I moved round the deck
for a little, making all square for the night; in the course of my orbit
I returned to the cockpit.

"It's transhipment of some kind," he said quietly. "Motorboats, of
course, in one form or another. The oil shows that."

I wasn't quite satisfied with this. "They run a cargo tomorrow night?" I
asked.

He nodded. "I want to see what happens. I want to be on White Island
tomorrow night. That would be the best place, wouldn't it?"

I thought for a moment. "There's more cover on White Island," I said,
"but it's probably farther away from the beach you want. They'll land on
the Pendruan beach, where I found the rag."

"They may not come at all," he remarked. "I may have given Roddy cold
feet. But it's worth trying."

"I reckon Pendruan would be our best place," I said. "But in that case
we ought to get away tonight, I think. We can't leave the vessel
here--obviously."

It was a very still night. There was practically no wind; the water
lapped continuously, gently against the topsides. The moon left a
dappled trail upon the water like an oleograph. I had been listening
while we talked, I suppose unconsciously, to the lapping of the water at
hand and to the mutter of the sea on the rocks beyond the entrance to
Marazan. And now there was something mingled with the mutter.

"Hullo," I said. "What's the row? Listen...."

I knew what it was before I spoke. After all, it was my business to know
that sort of row, and it was getting louder.

Compton turned towards the hatch. "That's it," he said, very quietly, as
though he were answering some remark of mine. "It's a motor-boat. And
something pretty powerful."

He slipped down into the cabin and turned out the lamp. In a minute he
was back at my side. The vessel was now in darkness.

"I can't quite spot where she is," I whispered. "I think she's over
there." I pointed up-wind, in the direction of the entrance to Marazan.

He waited for a moment before replying. "She's coming from the sea," he
said calmly. He looked at his watch, glowing faintly in the dark. "Not
quite full tide, as I make it. She can get through Marazan."

"That isn't a marine engine," I said. I strained my ears to analyse the
rumble. "It's something big. It sounds much more like an aero engine to
me. But that's no aeroplane."

I saw him smile at me in the moonlight. "They have two hundred
horse-power in them," he said gently. "I told you I saw them at Genoa.
They use them for running the stuff ashore to America from beyond the
twelve-mile limit."

I stared at him blankly. "You mean this is Mattani?"

He straightened himself up and gazed out in the direction of the rumble,
much louder now and evidently coming over the still water through
Marazan. I heard the note change as they throttled down.

"I'm so sorry about this," he said simply. "I didn't think it would come
down to violence."

I hadn't anything to say to that, but stood watching the Sound and the
ridge of rocks between Pendruan and the tall rock under White Island
that they call the Crab Pot. Compton sat down in the cockpit and began
to fit a clip into a Colt automatic pistol that he had produced from his
pocket. I looked at this thing incredulously.

"Do you really think it's necessary?" I inquired.

He looked up at me, quiet and reflective. "Roddy was always a bit
queer," he said at last. "Always dashing off and doing things that he'd
be sorry for afterwards."

I saw the launch for the first time then, crossing a moonlit patch of
sea about a quarter of a mile away. I couldn't see very well what she
was like; she was black against the moonlit water, and I could only say
that she was a very large launch, one of the largest I had ever seen. I
lost sight of her in a moment; we watched for her to reappear, but she
came creeping along under the shadow of White Island so that we could
not distinguish her against the land. Then we heard the engines reverse
with a thrashing from her propellers; finally they stopped altogether.
She was quite invisible, but I judged that she was lying in the shadow
close under the Crab Pot.

There was silence for a little, and then somebody hailed us. The night
was so still that though they must have been two hundred yards away, it
was hardly necessary for the stranger to raise his voice.

"Ho--ah, the yacht!" he cried. At the first hail I knew that he wasn't
English. The cry echoed round and died into the stillness. "Ho--ah, the
yacht!"

I answered. "Launch ahoy. What launch is that?"

There was a pause. I fancied that I could hear them consulting one
another in low tones; in my mind's eye I could see them. Then the same
man hailed again.

"Ho--ah, the yacht! It is for Meester Compton. It is to Meester Compton
that I have a message from his brother. It is allowed that I come
alongside?"

"No, it ruddy well isn't," I cried. "Keep off."

Compton touched me on the arm. "They'll come if they want to," he said.
"We can only keep them off by taking potshots at them, I'm afraid. I
know these lads."

There was another hail from the launch. "It is necessary that we come
alongside."

I turned to Compton. "Shall I say you're in St. Mary's?"

"They'd come alongside just the same, to see." He stood up in the
cockpit and hailed. "Hullo. This is Compton speaking. Keep away, and
shout out your message."

He drew the pistol from his pocket and laid it on the hatch at the head
of the companion. There was another little silence, and then:

"It is more convenient that we come alongside."

"No, it isn't," I cried. "Keep off."

Our visitor seemed to resign himself to the inevitable.

"Very well. Meester Compton, I have a message to give to you from your
brother. I am to say to you, to come to Italy, to Napoli. As he has told
to you. I am to say to you to come in the manner of his guest, and to
remind you that he will offer you the post of which he spoke to you. I
am to beg of you to come."

His voice died away over the stillness of the Sound. Compton roused
himself and turned to me. "Pressing, isn't it?" he said. He called
across the water:

"What happens if I won't go with you?"

"Meester Compton, I am to beg of you to come."

"I dare say. I'm not coming."

There was a long pause then. I could imagine them crouched together in
the darkness in the stern of the launch behind the engine, talking
quickly together in low tones, perhaps making their preparations for
what was now inevitable. Compton was staring out into the darkness
beneath the Crab Pot; I stretched out my hand quietly and took his
pistol from the hatch.

They hailed again. "Meester Compton, I must beg of you to be wise. I
have orders that you should come with me."

"Now we're getting down to it," said Compton quietly. He raised his
voice:

"I'm not coming. What are you going to do about it?"

"Meester Compton. It will be better for all if you will come by your own
will."

Suddenly they started up their engine. She fired with a roar, and
steadied into a low continuous rumble.

"See here," I cried. The instant I spoke they stopped the engine again,
I suppose to hear more distinctly. "I don't know who you are in the
launch. But you must keep away from here. You can go on down White
Sound, or you can go back the way you came. If you come any closer to
this vessel I shall open fire on you."

There was a long silence, but when the reply came it was brief and to
the point. I saw the flash from the darkness low down upon the water,
and at the same moment the bullet whipped over our heads and splashed
into the folds of the main. What struck me afterwards when we were
huddled down on the floor of the cockpit and peering over the coaming
was that the report had been so slight. It struck me that they must be
using a silencer on the rifle. I remember telling Compton that I'd like
to get hold of that rifle and have a look at it.

I cocked the automatic. "How many rounds have we got for this thing?" I
asked.

He had two spare clips, about twenty rounds in all. I looked at my
watch; it was a quarter past two. There were still two clear hours till
dawn. One point was in our favour, I thought; our little cannon would
make more row than forty of theirs put together. With any luck somebody
would hear and come to see what it was all about--though I had to admit
that the chance was pretty small.

I took a careful aim at the spot where I had seen the flash, and fired.
Before the echo had died away we were lying flat on top of each other in
the cockpit, listening to the bullets whipping over us or slapping into
the topsides. I noticed something that put the wind up me properly. One
of the bullets hit the boom above our heads and wrenched a great hunk
out of it as big as my two fists, instead of penetrating. The sight gave
me a nasty turn; I was on the point of calling Compton's attention to
it, but thought better of it. It wouldn't do him any good, I thought, to
know that they were shooting at us with soft-nosed bullets.

Presently the firing died away. I reckoned that they had hit us ten or a
dozen times, mostly in the topsides. Neither Compton nor I were touched;
the bullets did not seem to have the penetrating power to come through
the cockpit. I couldn't see what sort of a mess they were making of the
hull, but I remember thinking that I should have to sell out my Imperial
Tobaccos to buy the vessel after this was over--always supposing she was
still afloat and I were capable of instructing a broker in any more
conventional manner than by planchette.

I stuck my head up over the coaming and fired again. They replied at
their leisure with two that came unpleasantly close. I didn't fire any
more because I could see nothing to fire at, and for a long time there
was silence. We could hear nothing from the launch.

"End of Part One," said Compton bitterly. "Part Two will follow
immediately. I say, Stenning, I'm most frightfully sorry to have dragged
you into this. I never thought that Roddy would go flying off the deep
end in this way."

We waited for some time, and presently he sat up. "They seem to have a
complex that I should go with them to Italy," he said thoughtfully. "It
looks like one of those complexes that are dangerous to repress...."

He raised himself in the cockpit to hail the Italians. I took him by the
shoulders and pressed him down again.

"No, you don't," I said. "You'll be cold meat ten minutes after you get
aboard that launch."

In the dim light he looked at me wonderingly. "I don't think Roddy would
do a thing like that," he said at last.

I laughed shortly, "I do," I said. "When they'd done with you they'd
come back and polish off me. I reckon we're better where we are."

The vessel was lying about broadside on to the launch. "I don't see why
we shouldn't slip over the side and swim ashore," I said. "I believe we
could do it in this light without being spotted. Can you swim quietly?"

He nodded. "Would we be much better off on Pendruan?" he said. "There's
not much cover there."

"There's a cottage somewhere on Pendruan," I said. "In any case, we'd be
farther away from those lads in the launch for the moment. That strikes
me as a considerable advantage. I don't think they're quite nice to
know."

It looked feasible enough. True, the vessel was lying in bright
moonlight, and I had no doubt that they were watching us intently from
the shadow. At the same time, I thought it could be done. They were a
good two hundred yards away. One would have to move very slowly while
one was exposed to view; a quick movement would be seen at once. I
thought it would be possible to crawl very slowly over the coaming of
the cockpit and to slip into the water silently on the far side of the
vessel. Once in the water we should have to swim quietly to Pendruan,
taking care to keep the vessel between ourselves and the launch. I
didn't like this long silence. It seemed to me that they were up to some
mischief on board the launch, and the sooner we were out of the _Irene_
the better.

I took off my shoes and began to raise myself very slowly above the
coaming by the upstanding hatchway. I don't know how long it was before
I was lying face downwards on the deck--perhaps ten minutes in all. I
only know that every muscle in my body was aching with the strain of
holding intolerable positions as I climbed out of the cockpit, for fear
of moving too quickly. On deck I was able to relax, and I lay face
downwards for a little, resting myself before tackling the next effort
of getting noiselessly down the curving side of the vessel into the
water.

"Listen...." muttered Compton.

And then, as I lay resting on the deck, I first heard the motor-boat
very faintly in the distance. I think she was on the far side of
Pendruan then, because it was fully a quarter of an hour before she came
round the point into the entrance to White Sound.

From the first it never occurred to us to doubt that she was on our
side; that is, that she contained the police, the friendly, tolerant
police. It could be nobody else. We lay and listened with the most
intense relief to the steady thumping of the little single-cylinder
engine, growing gradually louder as she approached the entrance. They
must have heard it on the launch too, but there was no sound or sign
from her. Apparently they were going to stay and see it out.

"I wonder if this is the end of Roddy," muttered Compton. "They're bound
to see the launch."

For my part, I was never so glad to see my sins come home to roost as I
was then.

"I suppose this is the end of it," I said. "I can't say I shall be sorry
to be arrested. I wonder if we'll be able to persuade them to go and
have a look at the Dagoes."

Compton shook his head. "They'll be gone by the time this little boat
gets here," he said. "They'll slip out back through Marazan, the way
they came."

But they didn't go. The puttering of the little engine grew clearer and
clearer; even before I saw her I knew that she was the same little
motor-boat that had brought Joan Stevenson and, later, Compton to
Pendruan. The noise of her little engine dominated the situation. Long
before she came in sight I was sitting upright upon the deck looking
towards the entrance to White Sound for her appearance, a position that
would have brought a dozen shots whistling about my ears ten minutes
before.

She rounded the point at last and set a course straight for us. She
carried a lantern in the bows and for a time this blinded us and
prevented us from seeing by the moonlight how many men she had aboard.
She came on straight down the middle of the sound, leaving a silvery
trail behind her that spread till it lapped quietly upon the beaches on
the Pendruan side. The Sound was as calm as that. I have often wondered
what they thought of her on board the launch, how nearly they may have
come to firing on her. She must have had a narrow escape, I think. I can
only suppose that they knew what she was, and hoped to slip away unseen
when she had departed with her prisoners.

Two or three hundred yards astern of us she altered course, and came up
between us and Pendruan beach; I suppose, to put herself between us and
the Pendruan shore in case we tried to swim for it. We could see then
that she had four men aboard; the lantern glistened on a black oilskin
that one of them was wearing who was seated in the bows, so that I
judged them to be coastguards or lighthouse keepers enrolled for the
occasion as guardians of the law. The boat came up between us and the
land at a distance of perhaps fifty yards; in dealing with the
motor-boat we had to turn our backs on the launch. I didn't like that
much, and resolved to keep an eye open in the direction of the Crab Pot.

They stopped their engine a little way astern of us, and the boat
gradually lost way upon the water. I hailed them then, thinking it would
be best to take what little advantage there was to be gained by assuming
the offensive.

"Boat ahoy," I cried. "What boat's that?"

In the stern of the motor-boat a man stood up and coughed. "Is that the
yacht _Irene_, of Salcombe?" he said.

"This is the _Irene_," I replied.

"Quite so. I'm afraid I must ask you to allow me to come aboard, sir. I
am a police officer. I have a warrant here for the arrest of Philip
Stenning, and instructions to arrest Denis Compton at sight."

"You'd better come alongside, officer," I said. "I'm Stenning."

They put out an oar and sculled her alongside. I watched the Crab Pot
closely as they were doing this, but could detect no sign of life or
movement from the shadow. They were playing a waiting game. One can see
that clearly now.

The motor-boat bumped gently against the side. Standing in the cockpit
of the _Irene_ I was about on a level with the inspector standing in the
boat. I leaned over the deck towards him.

"One moment officer," I said. "My name is Philip Stenning. This is
Compton. We're giving ourselves up. Come aboard if you like, but be
careful. There's a launch full of men in the shadow of those rocks--over
there, just under the island. They came to kidnap Mr Compton. We've been
firing at them, and they at us. Come aboard, but be careful."

He clambered heavily into the cockpit and turned to me at once. One of
the sailors followed him.

"Captain Philip Stenning, of Claremont, Simonstown Road, Maida Vale,
London."

"That's me," I said.

"I have a warrant for your arrest under the Air Navigation Acts. I must
ask you to come with me, sir."

I blinked at him. "Under _what_?" I said.

"The Air Navigation Acts," he replied imperturbably. "The warrant is
issued in respect of offences arising out of an aeroplane accident at
Stokenchurch on the 6th instant."

"Good God!" I said weakly. That was how they got me. They had been
unable to establish anything definite against me; they had such a strong
case of suspicion, though, that they had raked up a string of technical
offences connected with the crash upon which to issue a warrant. It
seemed that I hadn't written up the log-book for the machine for three
days. It seemed that I had "committed material hurt or damage in
landing" and had gone away without paying the farmer for digging a hole
in his field with the machine. However, I have always held that the end
justifies the means and I've never managed to feel as much aggrieved
over this proceeding as I should like to. Indeed, at the time it struck
me as damn funny.

"All right, officer," I said, "I'll come quietly."

He turned to Compton and produced a sheaf of papers from his pocket. For
a moment he stood trying to sort them out in the dim light from the
lantern in the bows of the motor-boat. Then he turned to one of the men.
"Pass me that lantern," he said.

I interposed. "One moment," I said. "Be careful of that lantern. There's
a boat over there in the shadows. Don't show too much light about. Let's
get down into the saloon."

"Boat?" he said. "What boat?"

I could have cursed his thick head, and did so under my breath. "The
boat I was telling you about," I replied. "She's lying over there in the
shadow under the rocks. They've been firing at us."

One of the men spoke up. "I said I heard shots fired," he remarked.
"Didn't I?"

The inspector turned his head and looked over the Sound to the shadows
beneath the Crab Pot. I think he must have thought that this was some
trick of ours, some device to throw him off his guard and to prevent him
examining Compton. At any rate, he turned back abruptly.

"I don't see any boat," he said. "We'll deal with the boat afterwards."

He reached down to the motor-boat, took the lantern, and raised it above
his head as he leaned forward to compare Compton with the photograph
upon his papers. Compton grinned at him in the strong light from the
lantern; I think he was going to say something funny. I like to think he
was.

I glanced nervously towards the shadows across the water. I distinctly
saw the two spurts of flame as they fired; there were two of them and
they fired practically simultaneously. We learned later that their
orders were explicit. They fired together. One of the shots missed and
whipped through somewhere between us; the other went home with a sound
that I wish I could forget.

For a moment I didn't see who it was that was hit. And then I saw that
it was Compton that they'd got, as they had meant to all along. He was
standing there quite motionless, a little bent over the tiller, gripping
the coaming of the cockpit with one hand.

The inspector was still holding the lantern aloft. I pushed past him
with an oath; as I jumped aft there was a roar from the shadows as they
started up the engine in the launch.

I got to him as he collapsed. He turned to me with his face all
puckered; for a moment I thought he was going to cry.

"I say ... that's torn it," he muttered.

I had one look, gripped his arm close to his side, picked him up in my
arms and carried him down the steps into the saloon. The inspector stood
aside to let me pass; it had all happened so quickly that I think that
it was only then that he realized that Compton had been hit. As I went I
remember that I saw the launch slip out from the shadows, heading
towards the entrance to the Sound. The men in the motor-boat saw her
too; they say that she was a large, half-decked pinnace, painted grey.
There was nobody visible aboard her. She tore down the Sound at a great
pace, turned northward at the entrance, and vanished into the open sea.

I carried Compton below and laid him on the settee. For a long while I
laboured over cutting away his clothes with a blunt penknife. I had a
very small first-aid outfit on board; the tiny phials and bandages
proved miserably inadequate. I don't think I need go into details. It
was a chest and shoulder wound; with an ordinary bullet it would have
been a comparatively slight affair.

One of the sailors kept his head and gave me a lot of help; for the
rest, I was quite alone. The inspector, I suppose, was competent to put
a broken arm into splints; wholesale surgery was evidently beyond him,
and he was useless.

And so it came to an end. He died about twenty minutes later.




                              CHAPTER SIX


They took me back to Hugh Town in the motor-boat in the early dawn; we
left two men in the _Irene_. They were to bring her round to Hugh Town
later in the day, a sad, battered little vessel; in the saloon a covered
figure lay upon the soaked cushions. They took me back to Hugh Town in
the cold dawn; the ebb was flowing strongly against us out of Crow
Sound, so that we were two hours on the way. All the way, nobody spoke a
word. It was the sanest, most horrible hour of the twenty-four, the hour
when nothing cloaks reality, the hour when one sees things as they
really are. I don't count myself a coward, but I have always been afraid
of the dawn.

They took me straight to the police station in the little grey town and
put me in a cell, not so much as a prisoner as for privacy. I sat there
miserably till they brought me some breakfast, and then asked to see the
inspector. He came and I had a short talk with him, a grizzled,
unimaginative family man of about fifty, desperately worried and
entirely at sea over the whole business. I told him about Joan, and sent
him off to break the news to her at her hotel. It was impossible to keep
her out of it any longer. Before he went he offered hopefully to bring
me writing materials if I would like to make a statement. I said I
wouldn't.

That was all that happened till we left by the afternoon steamer for
England; I slept a little, fitfully, throughout the morning. They took
me aboard the boat before the crowd came and put me in a cabin below the
bridge; from there I could see the _Irene_ lying off the end of the
breakwater. There were one or two ugly scars in her topsides, showing
bright yellow wood. I saw nothing of Joan, though I learned afterwards
that she travelled to England on the same boat.

We travelled up to London on the night train, and they lodged me in a
room somewhere in Scotland Yard.

We got there about seven o'clock in the morning. I was tired and sick; a
bath would have put me right, but there was no bath available. They
allowed me to send out to my flat, though, to get some clean clothes,
and in the meantime a barber came to shave me. I was more myself when I
had shaved and changed. Then for some hours I was left to my own
devices, till late in the afternoon they had me up for a sort of an
examination.

They took me into a large room that was some sort of an office, of
rather a menial variety. One knows the sort of place so well. The walls
were distempered and peeling; the only furniture was two deal tables,
ink-stained and loaded with files of dusty papers, and a few chairs. At
one of the tables a sergeant was writing laboriously in a ledger,
breathing heavily with the unwonted exercise. There was a large clock
high up on one of the walls, stationary at eight minutes past twelve.
The window was closed and dirty and there were a few dead flies lying on
the sill inside--asphyxiated, I supposed.

The inspector who had arrested me was there, and two others. They opened
a large ledger, and there I saw a photograph of myself, together with
the Bertillion measurements that had been taken when I was in prison.
They started off by taking another set of fingerprints. I was getting
fed up with them already and asked them if the prints had altered much.
I suppose that was a State secret, because I didn't get an answer.

I wasn't myself, I suppose, because quite suddenly I found myself
beginning to lose my temper. I don't know now what it was that did it; I
knew at the time that I was unreasonable, that these fellows were only
doing their job in the way they were accustomed to. I think it was the
room that did it, that and the off-hand way in which they treated me.
There wasn't a man in the room who wouldn't have taken my tip if he had
done me a service in the street or at a railway station, but I was in
Scotland Yard and arrested on a warrant. They modified their behaviour
accordingly, and I found it galling. As I say, I don't think I was
myself.

They finished their measurements at last and put away the ledger. Then
they made me go and stand before the table; the sergeant, still
breathing heavily, put away one book and opened another, and turned to a
clean page. When he was quite ready, pen in hand, one of the inspectors
addressed me.

He cleared his throat. "Now, Mr Stenning," he said weightily. "I want
you--"

"Captain Stenning," I said curtly. I was all on edge.

"I want you to tell me when you first met the deceased, Denis Compton."

For a moment the impudence of it staggered me. He had warned me before
that my statement was to be noted and filed, as though that were not
sufficiently obvious. The sergeant sat gaping at me, waiting for my
reply. It was like some miserable farce. I realized then to the full the
gulf that lay between these fellows and myself. To them "the deceased,
Denis Compton," was a case, and nothing more.

"My barrister will tell you that in court," I said.

The sergeant wrote it down.

"You can give us a great deal of assistance by telling us now," he said.

"I dare say," I answered. "I should prefer to see my solicitor first. I
should like to write a note to him at once, please."

"Time enough for that," he said. "Now, I want you to tell me when the
deceased first came on board your yacht."

I looked at my watch; it was nearly five o'clock. "My solicitor's office
closes at six," I said. "I want to write a note to him and have it
delivered by hand at once."

I turned to the sergeant. "Please write that down."

"That's enough of that," said the inspector.

I moved towards the table. "I should like to write that note."

He hesitated and finally agreed, as a special concession.

"May I see the warrant upon which I was arrested?" I said, pen in hand.
"I haven't seen it yet."

After a little consultation they showed it to me. It seemed that I had
forgotten to sign the clearance certificate at the aerodrome, that I
hadn't written up the machine log-book for several days, and that I
hadn't apologized to the farmer for digging a hole in his field with my
aeroplane. In addition, I had failed to appear before the Finchley
Police Court to answer for these offences. I must say they had been
pretty quick about it all.

I wrote Burgess a short note telling him that I was in trouble and
asking him to come and see me, and gave it to the inspector, who sent it
off by hand.

I got up from the table. "Right you are," I said. "Now I'm ready to
answer any questions arising out of this warrant."

The inspector coughed. "I want you to tell me when you first met the
deceased, Denis Compton," he said.

I lost my temper completely then.

"See here," I said. "I've answered that question already. My counsel
will tell the court all about that when the time comes. As for me, I'm
not going to make a statement of any sort now--not one ruddy word. I
don't know under what authority you're making this examination. It seems
to me that it ought to be made before a magistrate. In any case, it's
time I came before a magistrate. I've been in custody now for thirty-six
hours. I believe there's an Act called Habeas Corpus that has a word or
two to say on that subject. I'm not going to make a statement now, but
I'll see my solicitor as soon as he comes."

Burgess arrived soon afterwards; they left him alone with me in my room
and I told him everything. Burgess was the one link with respectability
that I had at that time; he first dawned on my horizon when I came out
of prison. He was a cousin of my father; I may say at once that he's the
only one of my relations that I've ever been glad to meet. I wasn't long
out of prison when he wrote me a pleasant little note asking me to dine
with him; I went, and found him a widower, a cheerful old lad of about
sixty with a shrewd judgement for alcohol. He expressed himself mildly
surprised that I should have allowed myself to go to prison for being
drunk in charge of a motor-car. I suppose I was bitter about it; I
remember saying that it didn't seem to matter very much whether I went
or not. At all events, there and then he constituted himself my
solicitor; rather than appear discourteous I let him have his way. Later
I found out that he was the head of one of the most conservative firms
in London. The first thing he did was to put on one of his bright lads
to unravel my affairs for me. They needed it.

I set to and told him everything from the beginning, down to the time
when I arrived in Scotland Yard. I've often wondered what he thought of
it. It wasn't quite in his usual line, for one thing. His line was
litigation, land purchase, wills, death duties--the usual stock-in-trade
of a respectable solicitor. I was keenly aware of this while I was
telling my story; I could feel that it was rather rotten of me to drag
the old man into a criminal affair of this sort. Yet he was pretty well
on the spot when he came to advise me. In the very short time before he
came to me he had found out that I was to be brought up to answer the
aeroplane charges the next morning; he promised to send one of his
bright boys to represent me. He told me that all I had to do was to sit
tight and say nothing for the moment; his bright boy would get me bail.
He said he would find the surety himself. As for making a statement, I
should have to do that some time, but I could take my time over it. In
the meantime he would find out by means of some legal backstairs
intelligence department exactly what was expected of me.

Finally, he surprised me vastly by saying that no court would dare to
give me anything but a nominal sentence for helping Compton to get away.
He seemed to consider it rather a creditable effort--not bad, I thought,
for a lawyer of his generation.

He went away, and they brought me dinner, of a sort. I had nothing to do
after dinner; I sat and smoked and read the morning paper that they had
given me, till it was about ten o'clock. Then there was a bit of a
bustle in the corridor outside my door, and a sergeant came in and told
me to follow him.

I discovered that I was to see Sir David Carter.

They led me down a series of corridors and up a flight of stairs. They
halted me there before an office door while one of the sergeants tapped
respectfully and went inside. I was left to cool my heels for a little.
I remember thinking that Sir David Carter was a tolerably late worker,
and I remember the satisfaction of feeling that at last I was to be
taken before the man who counted for something in the Yard.

I was shown into the office after a few minutes--a very different sort
of place from the office in which they had examined me that afternoon.
The sergeant who had shown me in backed out quietly, and I was left in
the office with the two strangers.

One of them was sitting behind the desk facing the door. He was a grave,
white-haired man, not very old; I shouldn't say that he was more than
fifty, though he was quite white. When he spoke, he spoke very quietly,
but I knew at once that he wasn't a man that one could play monkey
tricks with. I got to know him quite well before I was through, but I
never revised my opinion of Sir David Carter.

He bowed to me as I entered the room.

"Good evening, Captain Stenning," he remarked. "I am sorry that it has
been necessary to disturb you at this late hour. My justification must
be that I am, as you observe, working myself. As is Major Norman,
Captain Stenning." He motioned me to a chair. "Will you sit down,
Captain Stenning?"

I bowed to the man who was standing by the mantelpiece. He was a man of
about my own age, and with one of the keenest expressions I had ever
seen on a man. I began to sort out my ideas a bit. I had thought up till
then that Scotland Yard was run entirely by a collection of
superannuated police constables. It seemed that I was wrong.

I sat down in the easy-chair by the desk. I noticed with some amusement
that they had put me in a strong light.

Sir David didn't waste any time on preamble. "Now, Captain Stenning," he
said, "I have asked you to come here because I want you to tell us what
you know about the circumstances in which you were arrested. There is
one point that I should like to make clear before you begin. That is
that any statement that you may care to make to us is in no sense
official. There is nobody taking down what you are saying--there is
nobody within hearing but Major Norman and myself. I cannot say that
nothing you may say will be used as evidence against you. I cannot say
that, till I hear what your story is. At the same time, I cannot see at
the moment any valid reason for bringing any charge against you other
than the one upon which you were arrested--and which, I think, can be
disposed of without any great difficulty."

He paused for a moment. "Our position simply is this. A murder has been
committed, a murder at which you were present, the consequences of
which, I am told, you did your utmost to avert. I should be failing in
my duty to the State if I were to neglect any opportunity of bringing
the murderer to stand his trial. It is for that reason, Captain
Stenning, that I want you to tell me what you know about this matter."

He stopped, and I took my time before replying. He put me in rather an
awkward position. I had taken it for granted that, if any action were to
be taken in the matter, I should be charged in open court with having
assisted in the escape of a convict from custody. In those circumstances
I should have allowed myself to be guided entirely by Burgess. Now the
circumstances were very different. Apparently they didn't want to bring
me into court; they wanted me to tell them all about it on my own. Well,
I was willing enough to do that so long as I could avoid telling them
about Joan. I didn't know how much they knew about her; I only knew that
I wanted to keep her out of it as much as possible. After all, the part
that she had played wasn't important.

I played for time. "I know very little about the true facts of this
murder," I said.

They didn't speak, didn't hurry me, but let me take my time. Sir David
sat quietly leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped before him on
the desk, meditatively staring at the ceiling. I was suddenly aware that
my remark had been fatuous. I certainly knew more of the facts than they
did, and it was up to me to tell them. There was no need, however, to
lay stress on Joan.

"I suppose you know that I helped Compton to get away," I said slowly.
"I should do that again, of course. I was under an obligation to him."

"In point of fact," said Sir David Carter, without stirring or taking
his eyes from the ceiling, "he saved your life."

"Exactly," I said. "After that, you would hardly expect me to give him
up?"

"In law," said Sir David imperturbably, "I should certainly expect you
to do so."

He reached across his desk, picked up a paper with a few pencilled notes
on it, and turned to me.

"I understand that after the accident to your aeroplane, Captain
Stenning, you visited the house called Six Firs at the instigation of
Compton. There you had an interview with Miss Joan Stevenson, who
refused to believe that her cousin was at large in the woods and
regarded you as an impostor. In some way you managed to convince her
that your story was true, with the result that you visited the house
with Compton late that night, where he obtained food and clothes. I
understand that you then attempted--unsuccessfully--to persuade him to
return to prison. You then decided to set off to lay a false trail in
the hope of engaging the attention of the police for a few days while
Compton made good his escape; in this you were assisted by Miss
Stevenson, who visited Salcombe under the name of Miss Fellowes to
prepare the yacht for you. You put to sea upon Saturday the 9th, from
Salcombe. Perhaps you would take up the story from that point."

It took me a minute or two to recover from this.

"There's one thing I should like to add to that," I said at last. "Mr
Stevenson, Miss Stevenson's father, had nothing to do with it at all, so
far as I know. I don't know what happened after I left. But while I was
there the matter was entirely between Miss Stevenson, Compton, and
myself. Neither Mr nor Mrs Stevenson knew of what was going on."

He nodded. "That has already been made clear to us."

I wondered who had made it clear, but refrained from asking. Whoever it
was seemed to have told them all about Joan; there was now no reason for
me to keep anything back. I started in and told them all I knew, from
the time I left Salcombe till Compton was killed. They heard me without
interruption and practically without any sign. I only caught one quick
interchange of glances, when first I mentioned Mattani. It took me some
time to finish my yarn, because I wanted to tell them everything, but at
last I was through.

I stopped talking, and for a long time nobody said a word. Sir David sat
leaning back in his chair, quite motionless, staring at the ceiling.

At last he spoke. "That account tallies very closely with the one given
to us this morning by Miss Stevenson," he observed.

I was relieved. "You have seen Miss Stevenson, then?" I said.

He glanced at me curiously. "Miss Stevenson came to me this morning," he
said. "She wished to make your position in this matter quite clear,
Captain Stenning. Perhaps I may be forgiven for expressing the opinion
that she came more in your interests than in the interests of justice."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, and didn't have much time
to wonder exactly what he meant. Sir David nodded slightly to the man
that he had called Norman, who took up the tale and proceeded to
cross-examine me pretty thoroughly on the details of my story. He made
me go over the account of Mattani that Compton had given to me; I
searched my memory for details that I had already half forgotten in the
stress of subsequent events. He was very anxious to find out in what way
the stuff reached England, but I could give him very little information
there. I told him about the rag and pliers that I had found on the
beach, which seemed to point to transhipment to a smaller motor-boat. It
was a theory that didn't bear close examination, but it was all we could
think of at the moment.

He finished his questions at last. I plucked up my courage then, and
asked one on my own account.

"I suppose you will want me to give evidence in court," I remarked.
"Shall I be needed at the inquest?"

I saw Norman glance towards his chief, who sat motionless in his chair,
staring straight ahead of him.

"The inquest will be adjourned," said Sir David.

I felt that I was treading on thin ice, but I persisted. "I see," I
said. "I suppose you'll want me to give evidence some time, though? I
take it that you are putting forward a case against Mattani?"

"That is a matter that will have to be considered rather carefully,"
said Norman, with an air of polite finality.

I was silent. The room became very still; there were none of those
sounds in the building to which one is accustomed. The absence of
voices, of the sound of passing feet, and of the rumble of traffic
seemed to leave a noticeable blank. I glanced at the clock, and was
surprised to see that it was half past eleven. I was beginning to wonder
irrelevantly for how long the sitting was to continue, when I was roused
by Sir David.

"Captain Stenning," he said. I turned towards him. "I imagine that you
must be feeling very curious about this unfortunate matter. So much is
natural. I trust that when you leave this building you will not allow
your curiosity to run away with you. I must ask you to be discreet."

"I can hold my tongue, if that's what you mean," I said.

He inclined his head gravely. "Exactly. We expect you to hold your
tongue. On our part, however, I feel that we are under some obligation
to you for the part you have played in this affair. We should show a
poor sense of that obligation if we were to conceal facts that may be of
some importance to you. I think I need hardly dwell upon the fact,
Captain Stenning, that I think that you may be in some danger for the
present. I am sure that your experience of the world will tell you so
much."

I nodded. That was one of the conclusions that I had come to already;
that Mattani, wherever he might be, would be feeling a little peeved
with me. It was surprising that he had not made a greater effort to
prevent me from giving evidence. I put that down to this: that when his
men visited Marazan they had no orders regarding anyone but Compton.
They must have expected to find him alone; it was probably beyond their
calculations that he should have confided in anybody. They must have
realized the position as soon as they found us together on the yacht; I
have very little doubt that then they realized the importance of
preventing my escape. The arrival of the police, however, had upset
their plans; they had to stake everything on the chance of two good
shots when the opportunity came. One had gone home, but mine had missed.
It was certainly on the cards that they might try again.

"I can see that," I said reflectively. "I should think the best thing I
can do is to make out a written statement, isn't it? You'll want that
later, whether I'm in a condition to give evidence or not."

He smiled. "I should not put it quite like that, myself," he said.
"However, I am inclined to think that there may be trouble, Captain
Stenning. Briefly, I should anticipate an attempt to induce you to go to
Italy, either with your own consent or without. I doubt if you are in
any serious personal danger. I doubt if Baron Mattani would attempt
another murder at this time; indeed, I should say that the murder of
Compton was not entirely premeditated. However, I have no doubt that
Mattani will be anxious to find out how much you know, how much you have
been able to tell us. For this reason, I think he will be anxious to get
hold of you."

I did my best to look pleasant. "That sounds jolly," I said weakly. "How
long do you reckon this is going on for? I take it that you will be
bringing him to trial before so very long."

He didn't answer for a moment, but then he said:

"That is a very difficult matter."

I didn't follow him. "Is it?" I inquired. "Surely there's enough
evidence for him to stand his trial on?"

He shook his head. "I think that very doubtful," he replied. "You must
remember, Captain Stenning, there is nothing to identify the launch that
you saw with Baron Mattani--except your evidence. That makes a thin
case, a case that needs further backing before it is brought into court.
But even if the evidence were perfect, the difficulties would still be
great."

Norman nodded in corroboration. "The Americans have been trying to get
him for a year," he remarked.

That startled me. "What for?" I asked.

"The charge that they have been proceeding upon," said Sir David, "is
one of wounding with intent to kill. There is very little doubt, I
think, that other charges would be preferred against him if he were to
arrive in America in custody. Unfortunately, that appears to be a most
improbable event."

"Good God!" I said bluntly. "Do you mean he can't be extradited?"

"The difficulties are very great," said Sir David quietly.

I began to realize then the significance of what Compton had told me in
the _Irene_. He had said that Mattani was useful to Il Duce. He was a
Ras, and I knew enough of Italy to know that one doesn't trifle with a
Ras. He was editor of one of the Fascisti papers. I knew something of
Fascismo through flying through the country, and through reading the
_Corriere_. I could see that the difficulties of extraditing Mattani
were likely enough to be--well, very great.

"I hadn't thought of that," I muttered.

Sir David eyed me keenly. "A charge of murder against Baron Mattani is a
new thing," he said quietly. "The chain of evidence is not complete--at
present. The charge of smuggling drugs into this country is also a new
one."

He paused. "I can assure you, Captain Stenning, that if either of these
charges can be upheld we shall see that he appears in England to stand
his trial. In the meantime, I am sure you will be ... discreet."

They sent me back to my room and I went to bed, a little overawed. Next
day Burgess sent his bright boy along directly after breakfast, and I
was driven out to Finchley in a taxi to answer my summons on the
aeroplane charges. Morris was there on behalf of the firm; I managed to
get in a word or two with him before the case came on. He was pretty
terse about it all. The proceedings were purely formal. Burgess's bright
boy stood up and explained that owing to my absence from land on a
yachting tour I had not been served with the summons, and hinted gently
at the illegality of issuing a warrant for my arrest in the
circumstances. He had too much sense to dwell upon this point, but he so
worried the court with his veiled allusions that they fined me two
pounds and sent me away with a flea in my ear.

Immediately the case was over the inspector who had brought me out asked
me to return with him to the Yard. I had only time for a word or two
with Morris, but promised to turn up and give an account of myself
during the afternoon. At the Yard I was shown into Sir David's office,
who asked me to dictate a statement of the whole business. This took a
considerable time, and it wasn't till three o'clock that I walked out of
the place a free man--and fair game for Mattani.

The thought depressed me. A month before I wouldn't have cared two hoots
about the chance of being shot at from round a corner; I should probably
have welcomed such a diversion from the monotony of my daily round. But
now--it was different. Compton's death had shaken me badly. One talks
glibly of battle, murder, and sudden death; one takes the risk of all
three with very little hesitation. But when one sees the results, it
makes a difference.

I say that his death had shaken me. For one thing, Compton was a man
that I could have hit it off with most awfully well. One can't describe
these things, but--I liked him. At that time I'd never had much to do
with educated people, people of my father's sort; I can't say that I had
felt the loss. Till I met Compton, I don't think I had ever dealt with a
man of his sort quite on terms of equality, unless perhaps in the
Service. It takes all sorts to make a world, and my way wasn't theirs.
But Compton had been different. I walked up Regent Street and Oxford
Street on my way to Maida Vale, and I was pretty miserable.

The sheer brutality of the murder came home to me then in a way that it
hadn't before; I suppose because I had had my own affairs to think
about. It was a blazing afternoon. I went striding on down the hot
pavements without looking where I was going; once or twice I cannoned
into people, but mostly they looked at me and got out of my way. I'm too
old to have ideals. I had all that knocked out of me before I was
fourteen. I'm not the sort of man that goes and puts his shirt on Truth
or Justice or Purity, or any of those things with capital letters. That
was the difference between Compton and myself; he was a man who lived
for his ideals, whereas I hadn't any to live for.

The whole show formed itself into a series of pictures as I strode on
down Oxford Street on that blazing afternoon. I saw Compton driving his
car up over the Downs from Winchester to Petersfield, and returning to
his home near Guildford to sit down and write to his brother that he
really couldn't go doing that sort of thing in England. I saw him in the
restaurant in Leeds, repeating the same vague threat. I saw him in the
cockpit of the _Irene_, and then I saw him as I had seen him last, with
that frightful wound in the chest that I could do so little for, that
was hopeless from the start, smashed and broken. All these pictures
shimmered and danced against a grey background of dope, grey, brutal,
and depressing.

Presently I found myself in my flat. I was suddenly very tired, most
utterly weary. I slung my hat into a corner and collapsed into a chair
in the tiny sitting-room. I was out of it all now. I tried to get the
whole business out of my mind; I didn't want to think about it any more.
It had been a nightmare show; I didn't think that sort of thing ever
happened in real life. I must get along back to my flying, I thought,
and forget about it. It would be as well to avoid any trips to Italy for
a month or two. I could do that all right; very likely there would be no
occasion for me to go.

It had been a rotten business to get mixed up in.

It's curious how little a thing can turn the course of one's life. The
old woman in the basement who came in every morning to make my bed had
given me a calendar at the New Year, the sort of thing that tradesmen
send round to their customers. It had some advertisement on it. I had
kept it to avoid hurting her feelings, and because above the calendar
there was rather a pleasant reproduction of a water-colour sketch. The
picture was a wide landscape with fields and woods running down to a
blue sea, all very bright and sunny. I had always thought of it as a bit
of the North Devon coast. I suppose I must have seen it every day since
it arrived. I looked at it again now, and for the first time I saw that
there was a couplet below the picture, not very conspicuous. It was a
bit of Kipling and it ran:

      _Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made_
      _By saying, "Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade._

I remember I felt just as if somebody had hit me in the wind. I sat for
a long time staring at that thing. Looking back upon it now after all
these years, I don't think there's any argument that could have stung me
up just like that calendar did. It got me just where I lived. I can't
explain myself; I only know that I saw then that Compton had been right;
we couldn't possibly have that sort of thing going on in England. I only
know that when I got up out of my chair and moved over to have a better
look at the thing, Richard was himself again.

The front door bell rang. I turned slowly away and went to open the
door; as I went the words of the couplet were ringing through my head.
Absently I opened the door. I was hardly surprised when I saw it was
Joan Stevenson.

"Good afternoon, Miss Stevenson," I said quietly. "I want you to tell me
what I ought to do about Mattani."

She stood on the mat looking at me in that disconcerting, direct way of
hers, as if she had been a man. I wasn't accustomed to it and it worried
me; the girls I knew didn't look at one like that. This time I managed
to meet her gaze. I don't think I shall forget that. I don't know how
long we stood there; I only remember the shadows in her deep grey eyes,
and the couplet that was running in my head:

                     _Our England is a garden ..._

"Do?" she said. "Haven't you done enough for us? It's in the hands of
the police now."

We moved into the sitting-room.

"I came to make sure that you were all right," she said, "and to hear
what happened that night."

"They told me at the Yard that you'd been there," I said. "Thanks for
that." I didn't say that they had told me that she went there to try and
get me out of the mess, but I knew she understood.

"It seemed so rotten for you to have been dragged into all this," she
explained. "And it was quite easy, because I was at school with Doris
Carter, and she took me along to her father yesterday morning. He was so
nice about it, and he said you'd be all right. Captain Stenning, I
haven't really heard anything about this--this frightful thing. How did
it all happen? Who killed him?"

"Mattani killed him," I said shortly. "Mattani, or his men."

"It's horrible!" she muttered.

She sat down, and I told her the whole story so far as I knew it. I
found that she couldn't tell me much that I didn't know already; we
compared notes, but I learned very little more. She told me that they
had had an inquest in the Scillies and had adjourned for a month; the
funeral was to be held at Guildford on the following day. I don't know
how much they had told his parents. Joan said that she thought his
mother was getting so feeble that she would hardly realize the details.
It was an extraordinarily painful business.

Presently we had told each other everything we knew. I got up and opened
a window, and stood looking out into the street. They had diverted a bus
route down our road while the main road was being repaired, I remember;
I stood and watched the scarlet buses as they passed below in the
sunlight, their decks crowded.

As I stood there, it seemed to me that the man I ought to get in touch
with was Giovanni da Leglia. He had been in my flight of Sopwith Camels
during the war. Heaven knows what had brought him into the British
Flying Corps; he was one of those freaks that turn up from time to time
even in the best regulated squadrons. We used to call him Lillian, being
the closest approximation to his name that we could manage. He was in my
flight for six months, a long partnership in the Flying Corps. He was
shot off back to Italy, as an instructor, then; I remember that we swore
blue we'd meet in Paris when the war was over. I hadn't seen him since.

I had an idea he came from Florence. I tried hard to remember something
of his characteristics. He had been a harebrained young man in those
days, cool, keen as mustard on flying, and utterly irresponsible. We had
a Bessoneau hangar on one 'drome that was open at each end, and served
as a garage for cars. I remember the rowing I gave him for diving down
at the end of a patrol and flying his Camel clean through this thing and
out the other side, regardless as to whether there was anyone or
anything inside. His speed was probably a hundred and fifty miles an
hour or so, the clearance about two feet above and below the machine. It
turned out later that there were two men in the hangar, who hurled
themselves into corners as he came through. I made him give them credit
for a quid each in the wet canteen when I'd done with him. I think he
thought me very pernickety.

That was one side of him. The other point that I remembered was his
fantastic pride of race. He was an aristocrat of the aristocrats. He
used to try and tell us all about the da Leglias. We used to throw
things at him. Once, indeed, one guest night, we were too far gone to
hit him, and he rambled on till he came to the bit about his descent
from one of the Kings of Aragon on the wrong side of the bed. We began
to sit up and take notice then; before we went rolling to our huts we
had revised and improved upon his pedigree. It needed bowdlerizing by
the time we'd done with it, but it proved a great attraction at
subsequent guest nights.

That, however, is all by the way. The thing that really mattered, and
the thing that had impressed me at the time, was his pride in his
family. I began to wonder how that fitted in with Fascismo. For all I
knew, he might be one of the most ardent of the lot. On the other hand,
he might be sitting quietly at home in a dignified opposition. He had
pots of money. But Fascist or not, I knew that I could depend on Leglia
for advice. He was a stout lad; there would be no shaking hands with
murder where he was concerned.

Joan got up from the chair where I had left her and came across to me at
the window.

"Is there anything more for us to do?" she said. I think she must have
guessed what I was thinking about.

I looked down at her reflectively. There was nothing more that she could
do, and if there was I didn't want her to do it. Whatever turn this
affair was to take; it was pretty sure to end in a vulgar brawl.

I temporized. "The police are taking it up," I said.

She nodded. "They'll arrest Roddy?"

I laughed. "If they get a chance," I said. "They'll have their work cut
out to do it. He can't be extradited."

She hadn't heard that, and I had to explain it. Something in what I said
must have made her smell a rat, though, for her next question put me in
a corner.

"Then there's nothing more that we can do, is there?" she said.

I shall always remember that, because the tone of relief that she used
startled me. It wasn't natural. I glanced down at her sharply, and I
think perhaps I saw rather more than I was meant to. One remembers these
things.

"I don't know," I said. "I had some idea of going to look up a pal of
mine, a bloke called da Leglia. He lives in Florence."

She caught her breath. "Oh ..." she said. "You can't go there. Sir David
said that you would have to be careful."

"I shall be," I said. "Damn careful."

She turned away, and stood for a bit looking out at the strings of
scarlet omnibuses that passed below, shaking the house. At last she
said, without taking her eyes from the window:

"Don't you think it would be best to leave it to the police now?"

"They'll never get him, of course," I remarked.

"Why not?"

"Look at it," I said. "They can't extradite him--for the present,
anyhow. He simply refuses to be extradited, and that's that. As for
getting at him any other way, they're so handicapped. They've got to
play fair. They stand for England. If they could get to know that he was
in England some day, I dare say they might be able to do something about
it. They can't very well set about enticing him to come to England. At
the same time, we know that he does come here from time to time. I've
not had time to think about it much, but I fancy we might be able to
work something on those lines if we went about it in the right way."

She glanced sharply at me. "You mean that you'd decoy him here and set a
trap for him?" she said.

"That's about it."

"They'd hang him, wouldn't they?"

"With any luck," I said.

She turned back to the window. "It would kill his mother," she said
quietly.

I had forgotten all about the old couple at Guildford. I've never had
much to do with family matters, so that this remark of hers put me all
at sea. I tried to assimilate the idea for a bit. I tried to see it from
her point of view, but I couldn't make it go. I really couldn't see in
that any reason for letting Mattani go free. I was still worrying over
this when she turned to me again.

"Leave him alone," she said. "It would be frightful for them if anything
happened to Roddy--on top of this." She stood fingering one of the
buttonholes of my coat, and looking up at me.

And then, at long last, I knew what the trouble was.

"Look here, Joan," I said gently. "D'you think that's quite straight?
Because I don't."

I saw her flush up scarlet, but I went on before she had time to answer,
and that gave her time to collect herself.

"It's not Compton that I'm thinking about altogether," I said. "I'd do
my best to get Mattani hung for that, certainly, but if it was only that
I'd leave it to the police. What worries me is the dope. We've got to
stop that coming into England, you know, and the only real way to stop
it is to get hold of Mattani. I don't know how many loads he's run in up
to date--either two or three. I don't know how much he runs of it at a
time or what the profits are; but I'm damn sure of this, the profits are
something perfectly enormous. He'll go on doing it, you know. He may
wait six months till the fuss has died down, but he'll begin again.
We've simply got to stop that stuff getting into the country like that.
So far as I can see, the only satisfactory way of stopping it is to hang
Mattani."

She flashed out at me. "Don't talk about it like that."

I was hardly listening to her. "Sorry," I said absently. I was thinking
of the days just after the war, when I had been living at a fair rate,
when it was all rose-coloured for us because we had not been killed. I
was thinking of the girl that I had met then, and the fine times we had
had, that first summer after the war. I was thinking of how it all came
to an end.

"I don't suppose you've ever seen anyone that you cared for really well
on in dope, have you?" I said. "I did ... once."

She looked at me in a troubled sort of way. "It's their own fault if
they take it," she said uncertainly.

"I don't think so," I said quietly. "They take it--they take it because
there's nobody to tell them any better. The sort of people who want
looking after, only there's nobody to do it. The Wimps and Flossies,
trailing about Shaftesbury Avenue in the evening, looking for a bit of
fun. The ones that come from Golders Green and think they're seeing life
when they dance all night in some damned cellar. They're mostly women.
They take it because they think it makes them bright. Because they think
it makes them pretty. They fairly lap it up. It's only because they
haven't got anyone to look after them. They haven't a chance. It's not
playing the game to put the damn stuff in their way. It's a Chink's
game, Chinks and Dagoes."

I might have added Belgians to the list, but I've never talked about
that business. She didn't say anything to that rigmarole for a long
time, but at last she looked up at me curiously.

"Do you really want to go to Italy for that, Philip," she said--"for
those people?"

"I'm afraid so," I replied.

"Why then," she said quietly, "you must go. And I must wish you luck."

I looked at my watch; it was about half past four. I wanted to take her
out to tea, but I couldn't think of anywhere to take her to except the
Piccadilly Hotel, and that didn't seem to fit in somehow. She said she
knew a place. We went down the road and got out my car from the garage,
and drove to a place off Baker Street where I had the satisfaction of
stuffing her with food. She confessed that she had dispensed with lunch.

Then we drove to Paddington and I put her in the train for Wycombe. I
promised to keep in touch with her and let her know what happened in
Italy; she made me promise to give her lunch when I had any news. At
least, the lunch was my idea. In return, I made her promise to stay in
Stokenchurch till she heard from me. Having made sure that there was
some reasonable chance of our meeting again, I let her go, and the train
steamed out of the station.

I got my car and drove out to the aerodrome. I found Morris in his
office, and I found him pretty terse. It seemed that the police had been
up at the aerodrome every day while I had been away. He said it was
getting the place a bad name. He remarked that he was fed up with me. If
I didn't like the job I could chuck it up, but while I remained in it I
would behave myself, write up my log-books at the end of each flight,
and keep out of reach of the law.

I gave him as good as I got, and for ten minutes we went at it hammer
and tongs. I was quite homely; I had been missing my weekly bout with
Morris. I pointed out to him that the whole business came from his
infernal policy of taking orders for five times as many machines as were
available, then waiting till a machine came in, turning it round, and
pushing it off into the air again in ten minutes. For myself, I said,
I'd had enough of it. If Morris wanted to carry on like that he could
find some other ruddy fool to fly for him. Personally, I was lucky to be
alive. In future I'd be a damn sight more careful how I risked my neck
for the firm on their rotten machines. As for the engines, the whole lot
were fit for nothing but the scrapheap.

He became personal then, and remarked that if I drank a little less I
might fly a little better. Anyway, the Rawdon Aircraft Company wasn't a
social club, and if my Dago friends wanted to find me they could go to
my flat and not come hanging about the aerodrome. When Morris descended
to personalities it usually meant the end of any bickering, and I wasn't
surprised when he offered me a cigarette and telephoned for tea. We
settled down then, and he told me the news. Collard was in the North,
and his dog had produced a fitter of puppies in the night watchman's
hut. He was having my machine repaired that had been brought back from
Stokenchurch.

"That's the way," I said bitterly. "Put a patch on it and it'll be as
good as new." He didn't rise to that. "By the way, what was that you
said about my Dago friends?"

"Keep 'em off the aerodrome," he grunted.

I lit another cigarette from the stump of the last. "Haven't any Dago
friends," I said. "What did they look like?"

"Dagoes," he said lucidly. "One tall and one short. The tall one did all
the talking. He was all right, but the other looked as if he'd slit you
up as soon as look at you. I thought they wanted a machine at first and
had them shown in here, but what they wanted was to know all about you.
I shot 'em out pretty soon. They were back again next day, but I didn't
see them."

"What day was that?" I asked.

He thought for a little. "Tuesday was the first day," he said. "Tuesday
and Wednesday they came."

I nodded slowly. That would have been after Compton had seen Mattani in
Leeds and before he had reached the Scillies. It seemed as though they
had realized that I was working with him and were trying to get a line
on me. They had been unsuccessful then, but they would be able to locate
me now all right. I had an unpleasant feeling that that might be so much
the worse for me.

Morris looked at me curiously. "Friends of yours?" he inquired.

I shook my head. "Dare say I owe them money," I observed. I turned to
him. "Are we doing much work? I shall want a bit more holiday in a day
or two."

He looked pretty sour at that. "How much?" he said.

"I don't really know. A week or so. Perhaps a fortnight. I've got to go
abroad for a bit."

He looked sourer than ever. "It'll be very inconvenient," he said.
"Where are you going to?"

I got out another cigarette and lit it before I answered him. He was a
stout fellow at the bottom, was Morris.

"See here," I said. "If I tell you where I'm going, I don't want it to
get out and round the town. If it does, I may be a stiff little corpse
before I get back. I'd hate that. I'd like you to assimilate that idea
first of all. I've been mixed up in some pretty funny business during
the last few days--as you may have guessed."

He nodded. "I wish to hell you'd behave yourself," he said fretfully.
"It was obvious that the police didn't want you for a little thing like
that. I wish you wouldn't go dragging in the firm every time you get
into trouble. The directors wanted to know all about you at the Board
Meeting on Wednesday. It makes it damned awkward for me."

I laughed. "I'll resign, and go to Croydon, if you like."

"I don't want you to do that," he said. "We only want a little peace and
quiet."

"I'll see what we can do about it," I promised. "Now look here. I don't
expect you to believe me for a minute, but I'm on the side of the angels
this time."

He grunted sceptically. "Don't bring them here," he said. "This is a
business office."

I disregarded that. "It's been a long story," I said slowly, "--too long
to go into now. But I'm serious over this. So far as I can see, I stand
quite a good chance of a bullet in my guts before I'm through." I saw
him stiffen to attention. "Now look here. I'm going to Italy, and I want
to get there on the quiet. Can you fix it with the people at Croydon for
me to take one of the regular Air Line machines over to Paris one day
next week?"

He looked at me gravely. "Not if you're wanted by the police in
England."

"I'll give you my word that I'm not."

He still looked doubtful. "If you'll promise not to bring the firm into
it in any way? Right you are. I can fix that for you. Only the outward
trip, I suppose?"

I nodded. "That's it. That's damn good of you, Morris. The next thing
is, it's just possible that I may have to get home pretty quick. If you
hear from me any time in the next month, will you send a machine out? I
want this to have priority over any other orders. It may be damned
important. I'd like Collard to bring her out. I know it's a lot to ask,
but can you fix that?"

"If you'll pay for it," he said.

"How much?" I inquired cautiously.

"The usual rates."

"Less the usual twenty per cent?"

"No," he said. "I'm damned if I will. I don't want to get the firm mixed
up in any smutty business of yours. Besides, it's a priority order."

We had the devil of an argument over that. Finally I made him see reason
to the tune of seven and a half per cent; farther than that I couldn't
get him to go. I wasn't sure that I should want a machine; I wasn't sure
that I could pay for it if I did. It gave me a comfortable feeling to
have it in readiness, though. It might be the means of getting the game
into my own hands. And anyway, they say that one always plays a better
game when one has had the forethought to fix an ace to the under side of
the table with a bit of chewing-gum.

I went back to the flying for a week. Rather to my surprise nothing at
all happened to me. For the first two or three days I went about in the
panic of my life that somebody would throw something hard at me from
round a corner, but nobody did. I avoided going out at night as much as
possible; the daytime I spent almost entirely on the aerodrome. We were
always pretty busy in the summer.

Then one day Openshaw, the chief pilot at Croydon, rang me up and asked
me if I would mind taking a machine over to Paris on the following day.
There was no hint that this was anything but a normal request, due to
pressure of work. I wondered how Morris had worked it. I said that it
would be rather inconvenient, but that I'd do it if he was really hard
up for a pilot. Then I rang off, and went away and sat in my deckchair
on the aerodrome in the shade of one of the hangars to think about it.

Well, I was for it now.

I went over to Croydon early next morning. The machine was one of the
single-engined ten-seaters that have done more than any other type, I
think, to put civil aviation on its feet as a paying proposition. The
load was a typical one. There were two American ladies, one of them with
the inevitable Kodak, both very shrill. There was a honeymoon couple, as
I judged, and the load was completed by three assorted business men, two
of them foreigners, all with their little bags. I watched them bundled
in and sorted out into their places in the cabin by the attendants,
watched the door closed. Then, with a couple of men heaving on the tail
in the blast from the propeller, I turned her and taxied out across the
grass.

I took the whole length of the aerodrome to get off. It was some time
since I had flown a Thirty-four, and unsticking was never her strong
point at the best of times. Once off the ground she climbed well. I
swung her round on to her course, climbed to about a thousand feet, and
leaned forward behind the windscreen to light my cigarette.

It was an uneventful journey. There was a little loose cloud at about
three thousand feet; I poked up through that on my way to the coast and
came out above it. It was some months since I had flown on the Paris
route; that gave the trip a little interest and saved me from boredom. I
crossed the Channel near Folkestone at a height of about five thousand
feet and trundled on on the familiar route through France till the haze
over Paris showed up on the horizon, about two hours after leaving
Croydon. I found Le Bourget and put her down gently on the grass, half
sorry it was over.

I didn't stop in Paris, but caught one of the night trains on to Italy.
I had brought a suitcase with me, and I left my flying kit at Le
Bourget. By a little judicious bribery during the afternoon I managed to
secure a corner seat on the train, and I spent a moderately comfortable
night as we trailed down through France. It was a hot night. I slept
fitfully; in the intervals I sat smoking and trying to remember what I
could of Leglia. It was many years since I had seen him--not since the
war. He had never met me in Paris as he had said he would; on my part I
had been a little shy of forcing myself on a man who was so much my
superior socially, the war being over. If I had ever been in Florence I
should have gone to look him up, but though I had flown to Italy many
times, it had never happened that I had put down at Florence. It lies a
little off the commercial track of modern Italy.

Dawn came as we were approaching the foothills of the Alps; in the early
morning we began to wind our way slowly up to the Mont Cenis. It was
most awfully pretty. I had never travelled much upon the Continent in
the ordinary way, and in the air there is no scenery. Mountains become
mere lumps of land, hazards, to be scrutinized for their physical
features, compared anxiously with a hatched and contoured map, and
ticked off as they are passed. These valleys were different. The little
villages standing among the pine trees by the bed of the river tickled
me immensely; it was something different, the sort of thing that I had
never seen before. I leaned out of the window as the train went puffing
up round the bends in the valley, and thought that it would be a good
scheme to come out here one day, simply to walk about those hills and
explore them. I remember that I thought it would be a good place to
bring Joan to.

We got to Modane at about eight o'clock, and then on down the valley to
Turin. All day we went meandering on through Italy, and it wasn't till
dinnertime that the train drew into the station at Florence.

I had dined in the train. I didn't want to go to any hotel in Florence
if I could possibly avoid it; to spend a night in a hotel meant
registering, displaying my passport, and generally broadcasting my
identity. I didn't want to do that. It struck me that there was a very
fair sporting chance that I had reached Italy unobserved; it seemed to
me that I might remain in the country for several days before Mattani
and his crowd realized that I was there at all. On the other hand, it
was quite on the cards that they knew all about me already. In either
case it seemed that the best thing I could do was to go straight to
Leglia.

I pushed my way through the crowd at the station, fending off the guides
and porters who came clawing at my baggage, and found a carriage. My
Italian is pretty rocky, but on this occasion I spoke it to some effect.
The moment I mentioned the Palazzo Leglia the old ruffian on the box
stopped leering at me, hopped down from his seat with a surprising
display of agility, and opened the door for me to get into the carriage.
I got in, a little bewildered at this unwonted servility; by the time I
was fairly settled he had whipped up his horse and we were bowling along
through the town at a smart trot.

The drive didn't take long. Not very far from the Piazza della Signoria
the driver turned down a narrow side street, and stopped in front of a
veritable barrack of a house.

It really was a most formidable-looking place. It was built of stone and
filled the whole of one side of the narrow street, towering up into the
sky. I don't know how old it was, but even in that clean air the stone
was black with age. There were a few tall, dark windows looking out on
to the street, all heavily barred with ornate steelwork that was rusty
and eaten up with age. I could see no sign of life about the place. The
door was a massive double gateway, as stained and old as the rest of the
building. By the door there was a mounting-block, and there was a rusty
torch extinguisher on the wall like a candle-snuffer.

Before I had time to get out, the driver tumbled down from his box and
rang the bell. It went jangling mournfully somewhere inside the place.
Almost immediately one half of the door swung open, and I was faced with
a grave old gentleman in evening dress. He had white hair cropped very
close to his head.

I mustered my wretched Italian to my aid. "Il Signore Giovanni da
Leglia,  a casa?" I said.

He said something that I didn't quite catch, with a rapid dignity; I
think he was asking me my business. I got out my note-case and produced
a card; he went fumbling in the tail pockets of his coat till he
produced a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles with which to scrutinize it.
That gave me a minute's grace, and in that time I concocted a wonderful
sentence to the effect that my business was urgent and could not be
delayed. I fired that off at him; he waited patiently till I had
finished, and then gave utterance to that magic formula that pervades
all Italy.

"Subito, subito," he said gravely.

I made my driver understand that he was to wait for me, and passed in
through the gates, which closed behind me. I found myself in an open
courtyard with a cloister running round the walls; in the centre there
was a fountain playing, with goldfish in the bowl below, and the place
was bright with flowers. The major-domo rang a bell and presently a boy
appeared; I was left in his care while the old retainer crossed the
courtyard and disappeared from view, my card in his hand.

I thanked my stars that Leglia was at home. I put great faith in Leglia;
though I hadn't seen him for all those years, I was positive that he
would be able to help me. Looking back now, I am a little surprised at
that. I'm too old to cherish illusions; I don't generally trust people
so much as that. This time I did, and I wasn't let down.

After ten minutes or so the old man returned, and motioned to me to
follow him. As we passed through the cloister I noticed an invalid chair
standing in a corner. It was the sort of thing that can be manipulated
up and down stairs; it had cushions in it and seemed to be in frequent
use. I wondered idly which of Leglia's family was forced to adopt this
means of locomotion. I thought that in all probability it was his
mother. I knew nothing about his family or his private affairs at that
time.

The journey through the house seemed endless. It was an immense place,
full of the sort of furniture that makes a house look like a museum. We
went through corridor after corridor, now and then up a flight of
stairs, always mounting a little higher till we were well above the
level of the surrounding houses. I could see that much from occasional
glimpses of the town as we passed windows. At last we came to a heavy
door at the end of a wide stone passage. We were on the top floor then;
so much was evident from the rafters that supported the roof, stained
and carved like the roof beams of a church. The old man opened this
door, stood aside for me to pass into the room, and closed it softly
behind me.

It was a high, vaulted room, with a wide polished floor. There was a
window at the far end opening on to a balcony; beyond that there was a
fine view over the roofs of the city, the river, and the country beyond
rising into hills. I looked round for Leglia. For a moment I could see
nothing of him, and then I saw that he was lying on a couch just inside
the window.

I went striding across the room towards him. As I went it was strange to
me to see how old he looked. The years had made more difference to him
than I could have dreamed.

He greeted me gaily.

"Stenning, Captain," he cried. "This will be magnificent, to meet
again."

"By Gad, Lillian," I said. "I'm damn glad to see you."

And then I saw why he had not got up to meet me, why he had never met me
in Paris as we had arranged, why the years had pressed so heavily upon
him.

He was a cripple. Both legs had been amputated above the knee.




                             CHAPTER SEVEN


Leglia was genuinely pleased to see me. Within three minutes his
retainer had been recalled with instructions to collect my bag and to
dismiss my carriage; while I remained in Florence there was only one
place where I could stay. It was with some difficulty that I avoided a
second dinner. He switched off that and spoke rapidly to his man; I
couldn't follow what was said, but in ten minutes' time a great platter
of fruit arrived, with a perfectly corking bottle of Maderia. Then he
set me up with a cigar, and I settled down in a chair by his couch to
listen while he talked.

It appeared that his accident had happened very soon after he left us in
France. It was the usual sort of thing; ninety per cent of the crashes
at that time were things that never should have happened. He told me
that he was teaching a young Infantry officer to fly on some
under-powered, dual-control machine. There came the irritable moment
when, staggering off the ground, he had shouted down the speaking-tube
to his pupil--"If you're going to fly the machine, fly it at a decent
speed--if not, for God's sake leave it alone!" He told me how he felt
the wretched man pull the control stick back, how he gripped it and
pushed it forward half a second too late, how he felt the machine slow
up, and lurch down ominously on to one wing tip, how he shouted: "Let go
everything. You've done it now!" They hit nose-down on to a little
mound. Leglia was in the front seat; as the fuselage telescoped, the
engine came crashing back into the front cockpit upon his legs. The
other man got off unhurt.

Very soon after that, he said, his father had been killed by a chance
shell on the Austrian front. Leglia had come out of hospital towards the
end of the war to find himself head of his family, Duca di Estalebona,
Principe d'Acceglio, Marchese di Sarzana, Conte di Vall' Estesa, Count
of the Holy Roman Empire, and a Grandee of Spain. He was rather funny
about that, in his queer English way; he said that he needed a
wheelbarrow for that little lot. He had never married. At first, he
said, his relations had been assiduous in presenting eligible damsels
for his attention and necessary action; he had had them up one by one to
have a look at them, and had sent them away again. He remarked, a little
bitterly, that shopping was no fun when you couldn't go and look for the
goods yourself.

He lived with his sister; for the benefit of his sister's fair name he
also gave house-room to an old aunt. There were two other brothers; one
was in the Legation at Athens, the other in America. Leglia himself
spent much of his time in his castle in the Apennines, the remainder in
Florence. He told me that it was a great piece of luck that I had caught
him in Florence. At that time of year he was generally in the country,
but he had remained in Florence on account of a certain stirring in the
local politics. He said that he thought his people needed him.

He said that with such a matter-of-fact air that for a moment I didn't
notice the authority with which he had spoken. In a minute or two I was
puzzling over it; I was beginning to see that Leglia must be occupying a
far more important position in the town than I had supposed. I
remembered how the driver of my carriage had behaved when I said I was
for the Palazzo Leglia. I began to edge the conversation round to
Florence and Italian politics, but I found that he needed very little
encouragement to talk on what was evidently his favourite subject. It
was rapidly getting dark. I sat there in the failing light sipping the
Madeira and eating biscuits, and listened while he sketched the course
of Italian politics through the years since the Fascist revolution. I
was amazed to find how close a study he had made of the affairs of his
country. The Leglia that I had known during the war had been a
feather-headed young man, not especially remarkable for an interest in
his country's affairs. As he talked, it seemed to me that his knowledge
must be something quite out of the ordinary even in a country of born
politicans. He never mentioned himself, but there was a personal note
all through his story that I found it very hard to account for. For him
the politicians were live men, men whose characters he knew, men with
whom he had argued. He spoke as if he were reading extracts from a
diary.

"You don't seem to miss much that goes on in Italy," I remarked at last.

He laughed. "But I see ... not very much of what goes on, is it not so?"
he said. "I go out only a little, only a little now and then. But
sometimes my friends, they come to see me to talk about our country, so
that I tell them what I think. They come to me to stay for a little in
the country--from Milano, from Roma." He mused a little. "In England you
have a proverb of the sport that sometimes I laugh about with my sister,
because I think I am like that. The onlooker, he sees the most of the
game. Non  vero?"

"It seems to be," I said. "You can knock spots off anyone else I've ever
met on Italy."

He smiled happily. "Knock spots ..." he repeated. "The English slang,
that I have not heard not since we were together. Always I have wished
to travel in England, to see again the little town where I learnt the
flying, And--Andover. That will be the only visit that ever I have paid
to England. Always I have wished to return, to see again your pretty
country. But...." He glanced down at his legs. "And I do not know any
people...."

I put him right about that. Then I leaned back in my chair and thought a
bit. It was almost dark.

"I say, Leglia," I said slowly at last. "I've not come to Italy for fun.
I really came out to see if I could touch you for a bit of advice. I
came to see if you could help me a bit. It's about one of your
countrymen."

He raised his hand with a smile. "One moment," he said. "It is with
pleasure that I am at your service of my countrymen, old bean. But for
my countrywomen, I beg that you will remember that I am Giovanni da
Leglia, and my people love me."

That tickled me no end. "It's all right," I said. "I wouldn't dream of
coming to you about a girl. The man I want to find out something about
is Baron Mattani."

I saw him glance sharply at me. "Ah," he said quietly. "He is half
English, by his mother."

It had become so dark that I could see very little in the room. Leglia
lay silent on his couch in the gloom, quietly puffing a cigarette,
waiting for me to go on.

"Does he cut much ice in Italy?" I asked.

He laughed suddenly. "The argot!" he explained. "I had not heard the
word till I was with you, and I had forgotten." He became serious again.
"He cuts much ice, very much. He is popular, as the papers say. He has
the Press."

"What do you think of him yourself?" I asked.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "For myself," he said evenly,
"the Leglias do not smuggle spirits. But in Italy it is not always that
one will speak one's thoughts." He turned to me. "Now you shall tell me
what you want to know of Baron Mattani. If it is that I cannot answer,
yet you shall know tomorrow or the next day."

"He murdered a pal of mine a few days ago," I said bluntly. "I want to
see him extradited and hung."

It was a long time before he spoke again.

"Murder ..." he said at last. "That will be something new."

In knocked out my pipe and filled it again. "It's about that that I came
to Italy," I said. "I can tell you about it if you like. But it's a long
story."

He lit a small reading-lamp that stood on the table by his couch; in the
soft light I could see that he was very serious.

"Tell me, Capitano mio," he said. "Of Baron Mattani the littlest things
are important to one who loves Italy. And murder is more still."

For a moment I was at a loss as to where I should begin the tale. "Did
you know that Mattani had an English stepbrother?" I said. "It was he
who was killed."

Leglia swore, very softly, in Italian. I glanced at him in surprise; in
the soft light of the lamp I could see that he was immensely shocked. In
Italy there is a great sense of the family unity, far more so than in
England. To us a murder is a murder, whoever it be. In Italy, I think,
there are degrees of murder and fratricide is a very bad business.

I could see now that Leglia was intensely interested. He lay listening
to me for the most part in silence; now and then he snapped out a
question when I had not made myself clear, or when he had missed the
meaning of the English. I told him the story straight ahead from the
beginning, and left out nothing.

By the time I had finished it was nearly midnight. For a long time he
sat smoking in silence, staring out over the quiet roofs of the city,
bright in the moonlight. I knew what he was thinking about; his mind was
running on the politics of his country. He was wondering what this would
mean for Italy. I left him to it, and we sat like that for a quarter of
an hour in silence. At last he threw away his cigarette.

"You will be tired from your journey," he said, "and it is late. We will
go to bed, and tomorrow we will talk. As you have said, I do not think
that Baron Mattani will have forgotten you. But for tonight you will be
safe in my house. Tomorrow, when you have met my friends, you will be
safe in the town. There is nobody in all Florence that will not see to a
friend of Giovanni da Leglia."

On this eloquent note we went to bed. He rang for his servant and I was
shown to my room. For a hot-weather bedroom it was a pretty good spot.
The floor was of stone with little rugs on it. Both the walls and the
ceiling were panelled with dark cedar, with little patterns picked out
upon the beams in blue and white paint.

I noticed these next morning as I was sitting up in bed over my
breakfast. The valet who had brought the tray was quite a boy, with a
rich crop of bright red hair. He referred to the meal proudly as a
"colazione Inglese", and it was certainly a noble effort for a household
where breakfast was unknown. There was coffee, a sort of stuffed tomato
with olives round it, a kidney aristocratically perched upon a bit of
haddock, the cold leg of a small roast chicken, rolls, butter, and
preserved ginger. I did pretty well by it, gratified at the thought that
had evidently been spent over my comfort. Then I got up.

The red-haired boy came in in the middle and wanted to shave me, but I
sent him away with a flea in his ear. He told me that Leglia was already
up, and was sitting in the cloister. I had a bath, dressed, wished my
suit was a little more respectable, and went downstairs.

It was a brilliant morning. After wandering about the house for a bit I
found the cloister; Leglia was sitting in the invalid chair in a shady
corner beside a table littered with papers. There was a girl sitting
with him, his sister. We suffered a very proper introduction at his
hands, after which he returned to his work and left us to amuse each
other. She was a girl of the typical Italian type, small, with dark
eyes, a lot of black hair, and a very clear complexion.

At the end of a quarter of an hour I had learned that she was an
experienced charmer and that she liked her occasional visits to Milan,
dancing at the magnificent balls given by the local nobility, officers
from the Scuola Cavalliere across the river, and chocolates. After that
I felt that I had learned all there was to know about her. She was a
good sort in her own way.

Leglia asked me to excuse him while he finished his business. I sat down
on the edge of the balustrade and told his sister what a corking
breakfast I'd had. Her English was about on a par with my Italian; we
tried each in turn with very similar results.

"Aha!" she laughed. "La colazione Inglese!" She paused, and thought out
a sentence. "We have tried," she said painfully, "that it is made
beautiful."

"Squisita," said Leglia, without looking up. "Good to eat."

"Si si si!" she said brightly. "Squisita."

I replied that it was a splendid breakfast and that I had enjoyed it
very much, and got this through at the second attempt. For some time we
conversed laboriously about England and the English, till at last we
came to the point that was really exercising her mind; did I think the
English girls were prettier than the Italians? I knew this gambit of
old; I flatter myself that the delicate courtesy of my reply was well up
to the high standard set by the officers of the School of Riding. At all
events, it went down very well.

She glanced mischievously at her brother. "For Giovanni," she remarked,
"I must to find a bride English."

He spoke very rapidly and tersely to her in Italian, and returned to his
writing. She sighed and shook her head.

"Gli Inglesi," she said. "Always he talks of England and the English."

She said that he was mad on England.

We went on gossiping till we were interrupted. The whitehaired old man
appeared round the corner of the arcade conducting the most gorgeously
attired police official that I had ever seen. Leglia sat up as he came
in sight.

"That is good," he remarked to me. "It is about you that he comes, old
bean."

He put his hands to the wheels of his chair and swivelled himself round
to meet the official. He was very nimble in that chair of his. It was
the usual motion of a host rising to meet his guest, but one that might
well have been forgiven to an invalid. I think that must have been one
of the many trifles that combined to build up his great influence in the
town. I knew very little of Leglia; I had yet to realize what a popular
idol he had become. It took me some time to adjust my ideas to the fact
that his popularity was genuine. For centuries the Leglias had been
nobles in the town, for centuries the townspeople had looked to them for
a lead. Giovanni da Leglia before the war had been modern enough to
please the youngest of them, a shade too modern for their elders. The
war put the whole town at his feet. That one of the nobility should go
and look at Jerry face to face in the British Flying Corps instead of
going to Rome upon the Staff seemed to them a very strange thing, very
modern and very wonderful. When he was crippled he became a hero. But
when he came back to Florence and took up his hereditary position, when
it became evident that his one care was for his people, he became a
saint.

Leglia conversed in rapid Italian for a little while with the official,
who seemed to be agreeing to everything he said. Presently he beckoned
to me. I went up to them, and became aware that the official was
scrutinizing me carefully. He bowed to me as I came up, and asked if His
Excellency would have the egregious kindness to display his passport. I
gave it to him; he stamped it with a stamp and pad that he introduced
from the tail pocket of his coat, and returned it to me with a flourish.
He made a little speech in Italian then, the burden of which was that in
all my walks abroad the Civil Power would strew rosebuds in the way and
would endeavour to restrain the populace from throwing things at me. I
took this with a grain of salt, but it was a fact that for so long as I
remained in Florence every carabinier saluted me.

I made a laboured little speech in reply, and presently he bowed himself
away.

He was followed by a succession of visitors. To all of them I was
introduced. Most of them came upon their lawful occasions to see Leglia
at his hour of leve; some, I think, had been summoned only to be
introduced to me. I could make nothing of the plan upon which they had
been selected. Mostly they were of the black-coated bourgeois type, some
evidently affluent, some less so. There were one or two that seemed to
be peasants or small farmers in from the country; there was one that was
a pure-blooded gipsy if ever I saw one. All at the conclusion of their
business with Leglia turned and looked me up and down. Some of them even
made a little speech assuring me of friendship should I be in need of
it. I had a set answer which I gave them in reply to this sort of thing;
to the others I bowed, and they went away in silence.

The whole show struck me as extremely curious. There was something in
the way in which they had all offered their friendship that seemed to me
too uniform to be altogether natural. It was as if they were accustomed
to it, as if it was all in the day's work. And here I may say at once
that I never found out any more about the conditions under which they
offered me this friendship, nor did I inquire. Looking back upon it, I
have become convinced in my own mind that it was to the members of some
society that Leglia introduced me. I know this much: that they were not
Freemasons.

At last they stopped coming. Leglia turned to me.

"You have now many friends in Florence," he said. "I do not think that
now you may come to any harm."

I was very much impressed and said as much. "It seems to me that you go
one better than the law of the land."

He smiled a little ruefully. "The law of the land," he said
reflectively, "he does not always work all of the time. In every country
he will not work now and again." He sighed. "In my country I think he
works not so well as he does in England. And the more so with the new
Government."

I began to see dimly what he was driving at. "Do you get much trouble in
that way?" I asked.

The girl had disappeared. Leglia motioned to me to sit down; he lay back
in his chair and lit one of his innumerable cigarettes. "I am Fascist,
for myself," he said.

He mused a little. "Always with a Government of force there will be
trouble now and again," he said. "It must be. And we have many
troubles--very many troubles, so that sometimes one will doubt of
Fascismo. But for myself, I am Fascist because the old Government was
not--not so good, not sincere. Fascismo is for those that love Italy.
And Il Duce is a man."

He leaned towards me and tapped me on the arm. "With some," he said
quietly, "Fascismo is as a religion and Il Duce is a God. The people who
think so, they are a danger to us all because they are so foolish, so
led away. They are--what do you say? Mad. No...."

"You mean they get fanatical about it," I said.

He brightened. "That is the word," he said. "They are fanatics, for whom
the Opposition in Parliament is a heresy. They are so foolish. For them
the whole of the business of Government is to make a speech and to say
'I am Fascist, I fought for Italia in the war.'" The mimicry in his
voice was wonderful. "More still. They do not think. For them a Ras is
as a God, and one above the law though he be smuggler and murderer."

"I understand," I muttered.

He laid his hand upon my arm again. "Do not misjudge my people," he
said. He spoke royally, but somehow I didn't want to laugh. "They are
not as the English. They are as the Irish, I think, much as the Irish.
They are so easily inflamed, so easy to lead away with talk, not very
responsible. But they will settle; they settle now to the business of
sound government of our great nation. Let only Il Duce live for ten
years more, as we pray to the Mother of God daily."

I glanced at him. "And if he dies?"

He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "My friend," he said quietly, "we
pray that he will live."

The sun was bright in the court, blazing down on the flowers in the
shade of the arches of the cloister, and the queer dry-looking cactuses
in the centre round about the fish-pond. I turned to Leglia.

"It's a Government that is open to abuse," I said.

He inclined his head proudly. "When I think of that, as sometimes I do,
I tell you, old bean, I am most proud. The Government stands to be
abused; in any other country it would be abused in fact. But in Italy
the people are well governed. The people work more hard, and we balance
on the Budget."

"That's certainly a damn fine thing to be able to say of the country," I
remarked. "At the same time, the Government is open to abuse. Mattani
seems to get away with it here in a way he couldn't do in any other
country."

He nodded gravely. "As you say, Mattani gets away with it." He paused.
"It would be better for my country if he did not. It is the bad example,
and makes many difficulties."

I laughed shortly. "It would be better for my country too," I said.

He looked at me reflectively. "That is so," he said at last. "Perhaps
our interests will follow the same road. Is it not so?"

I knocked my pipe out sharply against the balustrade. "My interests are
pretty simple," I said. "I want to see him hung."

He didn't answer that, but sat staring out over the courtyard; quite
motionless. He seemed to have forgotten my presence; presently I heard
him mutter, half to himself:

"It is but a tool that he makes of Fascismo...."

I lay back in my chair and filled another pipe. I could see the position
clearly now. Leglia wanted to get rid of Mattani, apparently from purely
altruistic motives; he thought that he was a bad influence in the
country. It seemed to me that Mattani had done him no personal injury,
but for the sake of his ideals and for his country Leglia was willing to
see him put out of the way--possibly at some danger to himself if his
part in the affair should ever come to light. I turned in my chair and
smiled a little. What a queer old cuss he was, so idealistic and so
foreign!

At that moment England and the life I knew seemed incredibly remote.

"You think that he would be better hanged?" I said.

Leglia did not answer. He sat quite motionless in his chair, staring out
over his little garden from the shadow of the cloister. I was suddenly
ashamed of the bantering tone in which I had spoken. I had been speaking
flippantly, but this was a matter of the life or death of a man whom I
had never seen, who had done me no harm. God knows I had little enough
cause to speak lightly of him. We were speaking of his death; it was
just as likely that we were speaking of my own. I remembered with a
start that for all the hospitality and good feeling with which I was
surrounded, I was in a foreign country, a country in which Mattani's
power was pretty nearly absolute. It would be time enough to laugh when
I was back in England again. I thought of England, and my mind travelled
back to Stokenchurch, the crash, and the long night that we had spent in
the smoking-room of Six Firs, Joan, Compton, and I, drinking and talking
of what was the best thing to be done for him. And then I knew that it
was up to me to see that his murderer was brought to stand a fair trial.
If I could do that, I thought, my life would not have been entirely
wasted.

Still Leglia was silent. I glanced at him, and my enthusiasm faded away.
There was no personal bias about Leglia--of that I am positive. There
was an air about Leglia; there had always been the same dignity about
him even in his most irresponsible moments in the old days. I felt his
dignity very strongly then. He sat there quite motionless, quite
impassive, staring out on to his flowers. If ever I saw justice in a
man's face, it was then.

And presently he spoke. "Stenning, my friend," he said, "it is that my
country stands at the parting of the ways. These years in Italy have
been most difficult since the revolution, most upsetting of all order
and moral behaviour. For my country when she is led rightly there stands
a glorious future. Of that I am convinced. But the leading must be
right, and in that there has been disappointment for us--much
disappointment. I can speak, because sitting here and taking no part I
have been able to watch the better. There are those of whom we had
thought little before the revolution who have shown themselves of a
great mind. And there are those on whom we had learned to trust, that
have stood but to gain position for themselves and for their own
purposes."

He paused. "We had hoped much of Mattani," he said quietly. "Of all men
in Italy save only Il Duce he held the imagination of the people; in
Italy that is to say much, though I know it is not quite like that in
England. Moreover, he was a little English, and we hoped much from that.
Of all men in Italy below Il Duce we had hoped the most of Mattani. And
it was all for a disappointment...."

I could find nothing to say to that.

He continued: "Still he holds the imagination of the people by the power
of his papers, but his influence for long has been most bad. He holds
himself--how do you say?--above the law. For Italy in these times that
any man should hold himself above the law I think to be most dangerous,
most probably to hinder the progress of our Government, the more so for
such a man as Baron Mattani."

He glanced at me. "I am most happy that you should have come to see me,"
he said, "for I think it will be of value to my country that the law
should be upheld. But the one thing I must press to you. If I can help
you to secure Baron Mattani, that he shall stand a trial before the
courts of your country; you shall not allow him to be killed before
that. Only in that way will the example be of good to Italy."

"I can promise that," I said. "Once we get him he shall have a fair
trial."

He threw away the cigarette and lit another. "You shall tell me what you
want to do," he said.

I considered for a little. "Is there any hope of extraditing him, do you
think?" I said.

"It would be difficult," he replied. "Most difficult."

He glanced at me. "Is it a need to extradite him from Italy by force?"
he said. "It seems that you have but to wait a little time and he will
come to you."

"You mean he'll come to England?" I inquired.

He nodded. "That there is much profit in his smuggling of drugs to
England I do not doubt," he said. "That he will not give up, unless you
will make it very dangerous for him."

"I see," I said. "You mean if we leave him alone he'll carry on with the
good work. If he really did that we might be able to do something about
it. But I think it seems very unlikely. He'll drop that particular stunt
now."

"That will be possible," admitted Leglia. "At the same time, he will
have much money in his organization in England--very much. Also he is
very bold, a very bold man. I do not think that he will give up to
smuggle into England, but he may change in the method."

"We don't know what the method is yet," I said glumly. "We don't know
how he does it."

Leglia stared absently at the little fountain. "That it should not be
very difficult to find out," he said softly.

"More than we've been able to do," I remarked.

He laughed. "It is because you have searched in England for the answer
to your riddle," he said. "In England a plan to smuggle into England
will not be easy to discover. But in Italy a plan to smuggle into
England will not be quite of so great an importance, and may be more
easy to be discovered. The more so by an Italian."

I looked at him with an added respect. "That's a pretty sound bit of
reasoning," I said.

"Where the murder took place," he said, "the harbour, what name--"

"Marazan Sound," I replied.

"Marazan Sound," he repeated. "They guard it now, is it not so?"

"Put a guard on Marazan?" I said. "I haven't heard of it being done. No,
I don't suppose they do guard it. There's really not much evidence to
show that it's ever going to be used again for smuggling. Not after what
happened the last time."

He seemed to reflect. "He is a very bold man," he said at last. "It
would be in his nature to go back there to smuggle again, being that one
would think it incredible that he should do so."

He relapsed into silence again. I left him to his thoughts and sat
smoking and dozing in the warmth, till I was roused by the sudden tinkle
of the bell on the table at his side. He rang again, and I saw his old
retainer come hurrying from the gate.

He slackened speed as he drew near, and came and stood deferentially by
Leglia, waiting for the order. No order came, but after a minute Leglia
began to speak to him confidentially. He spoke in Italian, naturally,
but I was able to follow the greater part of what they were saying.

"Nicolo," he said. "I am thinking of Luigi, the son of Elena with the
goats at Estalebona. He is at home?"

"Excellency," said the man, "he is at sea, being a sailor by trade. In
two months he may be home again."

Leglia closed his eyes. "A reliable man," he said presently, "and one
who knows the sea and sailors, who is discreet, and who loves me."

The old man bowed. "Excellency, the cousin of Luigi, Benedetto, the son
of Giacomo who lives by the gate, is also a sailor. They say that he is
a silent man."

"It is but to go to Genoa," said Leglia carelessly, "to the wineshops,
to get a little drunk, to make others a little drunk, to be silent, and
to listen. Such a man would be of service to me."

"Excellency," said the old man, "I will see Benedetto and I will bring
him to you."

He faded away down the cloister; Leglia sat in silence for a little,
brooding with his head upon his chest. Presently he roused himself and
began to talk of other things, of our old days in the Flying Corps when
there was a war on.

Then came the summons to lunch, a very Italian meal, served in a long,
dark hall. The sister was there with her chaperon; we made grave
conversation for an hour. After lunch everybody went to bed. Leglia told
me that he thought I should be quite safe if I wanted to go out and see
the town; he hoped that he would be able to get some news for me in a
day, or two days at the most. He knew that the English did not go to bed
in the middle of the day; in summer he thought it was a mistake not to
do so--but there! I should find fruit and wine in the cloister.

I found them.

Presently I got my hat and went out to see how the land lay. The old man
stopped me in the gate, and in slow distinct Italian asked if I would
mind if he were to send a boy to follow behind me. Il Signor Duca had
not thought it necessary, but for himself he would like to send a boy
with me. Things were, he said, "molto turbato, molto turbato...."

His concern for me was so genuine that I agreed without a murmur, and
the red-haired boy who had valeted me in the morning appeared in a plain
suit of black. Wherever I wandered during the remainder of the afternoon
the red-haired boy was always in the middle distance, never at hand,
never quite out of sight. Every policeman saluted me. From time to time
I passed people who took off their hats to me, but nobody stopped to
speak. I recognized several as those to whom I had been introduced in
the morning.

I went and looked at pictures all afternoon. I think at the back of my
mind was the fear that one day I might be called upon to take an
intelligent interest in things artistic. It was an occupation that I had
never tried before; I can't say that I derived much benefit from it. I
stuck to it conscientiously for two and a half hours by my watch, then
wandered thankfully to a caf, where I collapsed into a chair on the
pavement and settled down to watch the people for an hour. My red-haired
escort sat down a few tables away; I pretended not to see him, and paid
for his drinks.

Presently I got up and went back to the Palazzo.

That afternoon was typical of my occupation for the next two days.
Leglia told me that evening that he had seen his messenger and had sent
him to Genoa; in a day or two he would return with what news he had been
able to gather. Leglia said he was putting in hand certain other
inquiries, but for the moment the only thing to do was to wait for the
return of the sailor from the Genoese pubs. In that two days I saw more
of the artistic side of life than I have ever seen before or since; I
went at it with a grim determination that it was time I picked up a
little education. Leglia and his sister were vastly amused; it turned
out that they had never been to half the galleries that I plodded
through. When I expressed surprise, Leglia asked shrewdly whether I had
ever been into the National Gallery. He had me there.

After two days the messenger returned. He came in the middle of the
night--heaven knows why. I was awakened by the red-haired boy, who
tapped at my door a little after midnight, with a summons to Leglia's
bedroom. I got up, put on a coat, and went with him through the dark,
stone-floored passages of the Palazzo.

The night was very hot. Leglia was sitting up in bed when I entered,
tastefully attired in striped pyjamas and a yellow, tasselled nightcap.
His old servant was moving about in the shadows at the end of the room,
and standing by the bed was the messenger. He was a tall, lean peasant,
very tanned, with a straggling little moustache and with thin gold
ear-rings. He was dressed as a sailor in a blue fisherman's jersey with
a short coat over it. The room was lit by two tall candles by the
bedside that were flickering and dancing in the draught.

Leglia nodded to me as I came in, and turned again to the messenger. The
man was talking very quickly and earnestly, gesticulating freely with
his gnarled and roughened hands. To my disappointment I could hardly
understand a word of what he was saying; he spoke in some country
dialect that was quite beyond me. I sat down on the end of the bed and
waited.

Once Leglia turned to me and nodded gravely. "Of all people," he said,
"you might have thought of this." He thought that I was following the
story.

At last the tale was finished, and Leglia began asking questions. I
hoped to learn something from these, but I could make nothing of the
one-sided conversation that I could understand. At last the business
seemed to be over. The man stood there in the wavering light as though
awaiting his dismissal, a rough, queerly attractive figure, a man that
one could depend on. Then he turned his head and glanced at the
major-domo. Evidently there was more to come.

The old man moved softly forward from the shadows. "Excellency," he
said, "Caterina, the sister of this man, would by now be married to the
son of the harness-maker in Estalebona, had not the harness-maker
intervened. He objects that the settlement that she can bring is not
sufficient...."

Leglia nodded comprehendingly. "How much does she bring?"

"Excellency, she brings twelve hundred lire. But the father is a very
vain man."

Leglia seemed to consider for a little. Then he turned curiously to the
messenger.

"The son," he said. "Is it that she loves him?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Lord," he said, "it is necessary that
my sister should marry to be happy, and this man has offered, and all
would have been well but for the father."

Leglia nodded slowly. "I go very soon to Estalebona," he said, "as soon
as this matter is decided. Then I will talk with the father, and they
shall marry with my goodwill and with the blessing of the Church."

The man knelt and kissed his hand.

Then the major-domo shepherded him to the door. They went out, and the
door closed silently behind them. I was left alone with Leglia.

He stretched himself, and reached out for the cigarette-box by his
bedside.

"Well, old bean," he remarked, "so that is that. You have understood
what he has said?"

"Not one ruddy word," I replied. "It didn't even sound like Italian to
me."

He laughed and lit his cigarette. "The dialect!" he said. He threw away
the match.

"It is by aeroplane that they land the drugs in England," he said
quietly. "Of all people, to you that will be familiar. He has said that
it is by a flying boat, with the wheels, that can land on the earth or
on the water."

"Hell!" I said. "I might have thought of that."

The whole thing became obvious. I sat on the edge of his bed and stared
into the great shadows of the room while the bits of the puzzle fell
together into the pattern. That was the meaning of the rag and pliers
that I had found on the beach at Marazan. Where the sand was soaked in
oil was where they had beached the machine to load her up; it was
possible that they had refilled her tanks there. The pliers to undo some
portion of the cowling round the engine, the rag to wipe up the spilt
oil.

That was the only thing that Marazan Sound was any good for, for the
operation of seaplanes. Drawing no more than a couple of feet of water,
the machine could go anywhere in the Sound at any state of the tide. It
would be easily possible to take off from the water in the Sound itself
between White Island and Pendruan; in rough weather the Sound would
always be calm enough to enable them to run the amphibian up on to the
beach to load the cargo. The stuff would be brought to some point off
the Scillies by the steamer. There it would be transferred to the
motor-launch and taken to Marazan in the early part of the night, to
meet the machine.

It was very silent in the room among the wavering shadows.

"Does the boat fly out from England?" I asked.

Leglia nodded. "From England they fly in the early part of the night, to
land at the islands in the darkness with the little lights. On the water
they land, and to embark the goods--cargo. And then to fly inland into
the middle of England, but never twice to the same place. Always it is
many miles into the middle of the country that they will land with the
cargo, where one would not think to smuggle."

"The machine comes out from England?" I asked. "Where does she come
from?"

"An English machine--yes," he said. "But from where--I do not know. They
are the sailors who have talked, and they have only seen that which
happens in the islands."

"I see," I muttered. "They load her up at Marazan, and then she flies
back again--well inland somewhere."

He nodded. "That is so. Benedetto has told me that the load is not big,
not more than two men can carry or that one man should carry on his back
for a little way. That does not seem a great quantity."

"Eighty or a hundred pounds," I muttered. "God knows how much that's
worth. They mix it with some white powder generally before they sell
it--to make it go farther. Boracic or something. The girl I used to
know.... They sniff it up from the end of a spatula. You don't need much
of it."

"Benedetto has told to me that there is no guard upon the islands," he
said placidly. "It is that they will recommence to smuggle on the next
voyage."

I sat up with a jerk. "When's that?"

He shook his head. "It is not yet known. By the crew it is not known at
all that they return to the Scillies, but by the--the officer below the
mate. I do not know the name. He has told to Benedetto in the _osteria_
that the crew would not voyage if it was that they knew that it was to
England that they go again. The officer has said that there was trouble
the last trip, with shooting. The crew of the ship have been frightened
for prison, and for himself he is a little frightened and would like not
to go back. But it is not yet known when they will sail. Perhaps in a
week, perhaps a fortnight. Benedetto returns to Genoa tomorrow. In a few
days we shall know more."

"By God," I said, "we'll make it hot for them next time!"

I went back to bed. The next three days passed uneventfully; I didn't
see that I could do anything but sit still and wait for news. If it was
really true that an attempt was to be made to run another cargo, the
Scotland Yard people ought to know about it. Oddly enough, my mind kept
running on the man that Sir David Carter had called Norman; a useful
sort of chap, I thought, and one that I could work in with pretty well
if it came to anything of a rough-house. I didn't see how I could
communicate with the Yard. Anything I did might give the game away; it
was even possible that a letter might be intercepted. In any case, a
letter could not put the urgency of the case as I could put it to them
myself. I didn't see that the preparations to give them a warm reception
need take very long to fix up. Even if we had no word of the departure
of the vessel till the day she cleared from Genoa, I could still be in
London four or five days before she reached the Scillies. I decided that
the only thing to do was to wait.

I was much puzzled over the aeroplane. An aeroplane is a most
conspicuous thing; all sorts of regulations hedge it round about, so
that in England there is not the slightest possibility of concealing
one's ownership of a machine. I didn't know of a single privately owned
amphibian machine in England. An amphibian is a flying-boat or seaplane
that is fitted with landing wheels to enable it to put down on land or
water. I knew of two privately owned seaplanes and about a dozen
privately owned aeroplanes of various denominations and vintages, but no
amphibians. There are plenty of amphibians in the Air Force, but it
didn't seem likely that anyone could get hold of a Service machine for a
job of this sort. No doubt one or two firms that specialized in building
them would have a machine on hand for experimental purposes. It might be
one of those.

We waited for three days. Then came the news that Benedetto had been
killed.

I don't think Leglia had suspected that the man was in any danger or he
would have gone about the matter differently. We heard about it early
one morning. I was sitting with Leglia in the cloister when his old
servant came hurrying from the gate. In a minute we had the whole story.
Caterina, the sister of Benedetto, was at the gate. She had been visited
by a priest that morning, who had broken to her the news of her
brother's death in Genoa. It seemed that he had been killed in a tavern
brawl.

Leglia asked me to go away while he saw the girl. I left him to say what
he could to her, not envying him the job. I went up to the top room
where we used to sit in the evenings and dropped into a chair to think
what this meant for us.

I didn't get far. It was murder--of that there could be little doubt. I
sat there and remembered the man as I had seen him in Leglia's bedroom,
"the silent man who loved him." The thought that we had been sending him
to his death fairly made me sick. This man was dead, murdered in our
service. I was pretty sick about it, but for Leglia it was hell.

I went down after an hour or so. He was sitting where I had left him,
brooding in his chair. He refused to discuss the matter then.

However, he wasted no time. "When one has had defeat in the front
attack," he observed, "one will send out to the flank, both sides at
once." That was all he told me, but that afternoon his flankers left for
Genoa.

I saw them before they went. It seemed that he was attacking from above
and from below. One was the gipsy that I had seen before, the other was
a puffy little bourgeois, a traveller in a line of cheap celluloid
novelties. I don't know what their instructions were, or why he chose
them. I saw them passing the gate as they left the Palazzo after a long
interview with Leglia. Then they vanished into the blue, and we were
left to await their news.

We had a long talk about it that evening sitting in the top room looking
out over the river to the hills. Leglia hardly mentioned the dead man.
He said briefly and conclusively that it was certainly murder, and
laughed at the idea of the murderer being brought to stand his trial.
The real point of interest was--how much did Mattani know? This we had
no means of estimating till the return of the two flankers.

I shall always remember the dreariness of that second period of waiting.
Leglia was worried and uncommunicative; for myself, I roamed restlessly
about the Palazzo and the town, wondering how much of my movements was
known, wondering every time I went out if I should get a knife in my
ribs, too restless to remain in the Palazzo, wishing most desperately
that I could be up and doing. The evenings we spent in the top room,
smoking and drinking the Madeira. During this time I saw very little of
the sister or her aunt. I think they kept out of our way purposely. I
don't blame them for that; we must have been pretty poor company during
that time of waiting.

My mind kept turning to Mattani. To me he was an abstraction, a force in
this matter without a personality. It was like blindfold boxing. It
worried me very much, I remember, that I could only conjure up the
vaguest idea as to the personality that I was up against. I had to rely
on Leglia's descriptions of the man; he told me that he was short and
thickset, with a very bland manner. That tallied more or less with what
Compton had told me. "If you ever have anything to do with Roddy," he
had said, "you'll find him very pleasant to deal with. Very good
company...." There was something about this description of the man that
simply terrified me. I say that in all seriousness. I did my best to
hide it from Leglia, but during those days of waiting I was miserable. I
had the wind right up.

The gipsy was the first to return. He came in the morning at the usual
hour of leve; Leglia saw him in the cloister. He brought with him
indisputable evidence that the murder had been committed at the
instigation of Mattani, but he thought that it was not known that Leglia
was concerned. He had heard no mention of me. The affair had happened in
some pretty low pub in Genoa. Benedetto had entered the place and sat
down with a drink at one of the tables, probably to wait for some sailor
from the ship. It was a put-up job. One fellow went lurching across the
room swearing that that was the man who had seduced his sister in some
little inland village; two or three others had taken up the cry,
shouting that that was the man. It was all over in a minute. There was a
short scuffle, and in a moment the crowd were pouring out of the inn, so
that by the time the keeper of the house and his daughter got to him
they were the only people in the place. He died very soon.

The innkeeper had denied all knowledge of the men, and it seemed that
the police had not exerted themselves more than was necessary for the
sake of appearances. As Leglia observed, it was in Genoa that it
happened, and in Genoa Baron Mattani "had the Press." The murderer had
not been identified. According to the gipsy he was one of three men, all
of whom had been present, all of whom were Fascists of the lower type
and strong partisans of Mattani.

Suspicion was certainly aroused, but the indications were that Benedetto
had been considered to be an agent of the Americans, anxious to discover
the date of the next appearance of the vessel in Rum Row. He had drawn
suspicion on himself by his eager curiosity; I think he had probably
been very careless. He must have found out something of importance, or
they would hardly have flown to extremities to secure his silence.

There was no information about the departure of the vessel to be gleaned
from the gipsy. He had been able to discover nothing of that, judging it
wiser, I suppose, to let things simmer down a bit.

That was all he knew. He stood by while we talked it over in English,
leaning against the balustrade in the sun, a picturesque, rather a dirty
figure. Presently, tiring of a conversation that he could not
understand, he began to whistle a little tune between his teeth, very
softly, over and over again. It had a plaintive, eerie sort of lilt to
it; I never think of that day but I recall that little tune. I could
whistle it now.

Presently it drew Leglia's attention.

He glanced at the man. "That is a sad song," he said in Italian.

The man smiled broadly, expansively. "Lord," he replied in his vile
dialect, "it is one of the songs of my people." Then he began to sing,
very softly and distinctly, to the tune that he had been whistling:

             _"I am not of this earth,_
                _Nor born of mortal mother,_
             _But Fortune, with her turning, turning wheel,_
             _Hath brought me hither."_

Leglia eyed him keenly. "My friend," he said in Italian, "you shall tell
me the meaning of your song."

The man laughed cheerfully. "Lord," he said, "there is no meaning. My
father sang that song to me, and my father's father. Many of our songs
are such."

He stopped laughing and glanced slyly at Leglia. "Yet, Lord, there are
other songs? ..."

He began to whistle some air that I had never heard before. He stopped
after the first bar or two; there may have been something in Leglia's
eye, I think, that told him it would be unhealthy to proceed.

"That is a song that one does not sing aloud," said Leglia sharply.

The man looked abashed. "Lord," he said, "I am thinking of Benedetto."

For a minute Leglia was silent. Then, "I, too, am thinking of
Benedetto," he said quietly, and dismissed the man.

Finally, after two more days, the little black-coated commercial
traveller returned.

His story was quite explicit. The date when he came to us was July 8th.
His information was to the effect that there was certainly no guard on
Marazan, and that a cargo was to be transhipped there on the night of
the 16th-17th. He told us, beaming, that while primarily engaged upon
obtaining this information he had been successful in obtaining an order
for some incredible number of celluloid serviette-rings. One thing, he
said placidly, always led to another.

That evening I left for England. The Leglias bade me farewell each in
their own way.

"For Giovanni," said his sister, "you will search diligently for a bride
English, is it not so? I do not think that he will want for her to be
very pretty, because already I have brought to him all the most pretty
girls of Florence and he is--pah! Not at all interested. Like suet."

"Captain, old thing," said Leglia, "next year I come to England for a
certain, and I shall enter you to fly me in a two-seater in the King's
Cup race, and we will have the perfectly marvellous time."




                             CHAPTER EIGHT


I got to Paris at midday on the 9th and went out to Le Bourget. My luck
was in here; a machine was leaving for Croydon in half an hour's time. A
touch of blarney with Kerret in the aerodrome office secured me the
mechanic's seat, and I crossed with Bluden as pilot in a little under
two and a half hours. We were telling each other stories most of the
way. It wasn't until we landed that we realized that he had given the
passengers palpitations by switching off the engine while we were over
the Channel in order that he might listen the better to one of mine. At
the time it never struck either of us, but we heard later that there was
a fine to-do in the cabin when the engine stopped.

It was about half past four when we put down at Croydon. I had some tea,
and was in Whitehall by six. It was a Saturday afternoon and Scotland
Yard looked pretty barren, inhabited solely by unintelligent and
asthmatic sergeants recruited from the more remote parts of the country.
One of them received my inquiry for Norman with an air of polite
finality. It was, he said, Saturday afternoon.

"Do you expect him back here today or tomorrow?" I asked.

The sergeant ruminated, grunted, and rubbed his chin. "Well," he rumbled
benevolently, "Monday morning. He might be in Monday morning, and then
again he mightn't. It's like that, you see, sir." He beamed at me.

"Is Sir David Carter here?" I asked.

He looked troubled at that. "Strangers 'ave to 'ave an appointment to
see Sir David," he said. "If you'll just put down your business on the
form I'll lay it on Major Norman's desk. That's what I'll do. I'll lay
it on his desk, and then he'll see it first thing Monday morning."

"Sir David will see me," I said. "Here's my card."

He laughed pleasantly. "Not this afternoon, he won't," he remarked.
"He's not here."

My patience began to wear a little thin. He stopped laughing when he
caught my eye.

"My business is urgent," I said. "If you can give me Major Norman's
private address I'll go and see him there."

He stiffened at once. "All business to be passed through the proper
channels," he said. "We don't give no private addresses at the Yard. If
you'll tell me what it is you wants done I'll see to it myself."

He had my card on the table before him. "See here," I said. "You see who
I am?"

He took up the card in an enormous hand and spelled it out. "P. H.
Stenning," he said. It didn't seem to convey much to him.

"Right," I said. "You remember the Marazan murder. I'm the man who was
on board the yacht when Compton, the convict, was shot. I've some urgent
information about that to tell Major Norman. That's my business."

He looked terribly worried. "I don't rightly know what to do about
that," he said. "Did you want to make a statement?"

"I can tell you what you're going to do," I said tersely. "You're going
to give me Major Norman's address. If you don't I shall go and see Sir
David Carter. I can get his address out of _Who's Who_. I tell you, this
matter is urgent."

He moved ponderously to the door. "What you want to do, sir," he said
definitely, "is to make a statement." I realized that he was about to
summon witnesses.

I stopped him. "I'm going to do nothing of the sort," I said. "I've got
valuable information about the murder of Mr Compton. If you'll give me
Major Norman's address I'll go and see him now. Otherwise I shall walk
straight out and go to Sir David Carter's house. I must see one or other
of them today."

He capitulated, and in five minutes I was on my way to Charing Cross,
bound for Chislehurst. I reached the house at about half past seven. It
stood back a little from the road, a small house with a large garden. I
asked for Major Norman at the door, and was shown into a morning-room to
wait.

The room opened on to the lawn. It was getting on for dinnertime, but
there was a game of tennis going on on the lawn, two men and two girls.
I saw the maid go out and speak to one of the girls.

She turned to the others. "We'll have to chuck it," she cried. "There's
a bloke come to see Reggie." I learned later that she was his wife.

They gathered together on the court; I recognized Norman as he was
putting on his coat. "About time we stopped, anyway," said the other
man. "I could do with a bath, and the odd spot of dinner."

"Bags I first go at the bath," said the other girl.

I had to pinch myself to realize that I was awake. It all seemed
incredibly remote from the violent business that I had come upon. It
seemed a shame to break in on Norman in this quiet suburban atmosphere
with a talk of dope and murder. I could see Norman whispering with his
wife, and as he broke away from the group she called after him that
there was plenty of supper. He came up the window and entered the room.

"Good evening, Captain Stenning," he said. "I hope this doesn't mean
that you've been having trouble with the Italians."

I laughed shortly. "No," I said. "It means they're going to have trouble
with me."

He slipped into a chair, and it was half an hour before we stirred. I
told him everything that had happened in Italy, and I told him as much
as I could remember about Leglia's talk about Fascismo. He listened
attentively, making very little comment till I had done.

At the end he remained staring into the sunlit garden.

"Marazan again," he muttered. "On the 16th." He turned to me. "You
surprise me very much, Captain Stenning," he said.

I nodded. "I know. At the same time, it seems quite likely that he
should try it again. It means that the place is an integral part of the
whole scheme, that the success of running a cargo depends on the use of
Marazan. I take it that it's true that there is no guard there?"

He nodded absently. "There is no guard. I didn't mean that when I said
that you surprised me. By going to Italy you ran a very grave risk."

He eyed me steadily for a moment, and then laughed. "As you know."

"I was well protected," I remarked.

"That's obvious," he said drily. "This friend of yours, the Duke of
Estalebona, did you say? ..."

I nodded. "You'd better make some inquiries about him, to satisfy
yourself," I said. "But you'll find him all right."

He sat drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair for a minute.
Then he got up.

"If you'll stay and have dinner with us," he said, "I'll come up to Town
with you afterwards. Good." He stood in the window for a moment rubbing
his chin thoughtfully.

"It's a better line than we've been able to strike," he said at last.
"We've not been able to do much up to date."

We went up to Town together after dinner; I parted from him at Charing
Cross with an appointment to meet him and Sir David Carter at the Yard
at eleven o'clock next morning--Sunday. I got back to my flat in Maida
Vale at about half past ten, and I must say I wasn't sorry to be back. I
was relieved that I had managed to see Norman. At the back of my mind
had been the disturbing thought that if Mattani had got to hear that I
had been in Italy, it was to his interest to prevent me getting to
Norman with my news. It had not been altogether a sincere devotion to
duty that had made me eager to see Norman at the first possible moment.
Till my tale was told I could only regard myself as a possible target
for people to shoot at, or to hit on the head with something blunt. Now
that anxiety was removed. If Mattani was clever enough to find out that
I had been to Italy, he was probably clever enough to find out that I
had already seen Norman--in which case there was no longer any point in
hitting me on the head.

In the morning I went to the Yard again.

I never felt quite at my ease with Sir David Carter. He was one of those
men like Morris, keen and efficient, but with an air that rather kept
one at a distance. I could see from his manner that the old man must
have a bitter tongue when he was roused, and it was pretty evident that
Norman had had some of it in his time. And yet there was some stuff in
Norman--as we saw later.

Sir David greeted me with a sort of old-fashioned courtesy that made me
rather ill at ease. "Major Norman tells me that you have been in Italy,
Captain Stenning. I should be greatly interested in your account."

He turned to Norman. "It would be better if Captain Stenning told us his
story again from the beginning," he said. "You had better make a few
notes."

Norman sat down at a table with a writing-pad, and I started in and told
my story again, from the time I left Scotland Yard till I returned to
England. Sir David sat as he had sat before, his chair tilted back
behind the desk, staring motionless at the ceiling. It was very quiet in
the office. It was a Sunday morning and there was no traffic in the
streets outside to disturb us; for what seemed a long time my voice was
the only sound in the room. I had no interruptions from Norman. Now and
again I was aware that he was writing rapidly; then for a time he would
sit still. At last I had finished. Norman glanced at his chief, took up
his notes and asked me half a dozen questions--dates, times, and names
of people.

At the end, Sir David stirred and sat up. "A most capable piece of
work," he said gravely. "One point. This friend of yours, da Leglia--"

Norman got up from the table and passed his chief a slip of paper. "I
think this covers him, sir."

Sir David ran an eye down it. "The Earl of Rennel," he muttered. "The
Italian Embassy.... You are in touch with the Consul?"

"There has been hardly time for a reply yet, sir."

Sir David laid the paper on his desk. When next he spoke it was to me.

"As you see," he said slowly, "this matter of Baron Mattani is extending
into a wider field than the extradition of a suspected murderer. I am
sure, Captain Stenning, that you will see the necessity for the greatest
discretion?"

I said that I quite understood that.

There was a long silence, till suddenly he sat up in his chair and began
to ask me questions about the note that I had found in my bed at Exeter.
I had to go over the whole of that incident again, and at the end there
was another pause.

Presently he laid off on another tack. It was rather like watching the
hounds working a covert.

"Major Norman," he said, "from your memory of the dangerous drug cases,
can you locate any steady and considerable source of supply other than
through Asiatics?"

Norman wrinkled his brows. "There are always a number of cases where the
origin is evident," he said slowly. "Cases in which a Lascar brings over
a parcel of the drug in the forepeak of his ship. Of the cases where the
origin is obscure, I can remember very few cases where the origin has
been non-Asiatic. That is to say, the stuff is generally traceable to
some Chinaman who cannot be identified. I can remember very few obscure
European cases."

"Verify that," said Sir David. "It is possible that the Chinaman takes
rather more blame than he deserves."

"They would have to have a clearing-house," said Norman. "It would be
reasonable for that to be Chinese."

Sir David glanced at him. "There has been no indication of that up to
date?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"There must be a clearing-house for the division and distribution of the
drug. There may be two or three."

There was a long silence. An omnibus or two went rumbling down
Whitehall. In a side street near at hand, close below the window of the
office, some wandering violinist struck up the _Caprice Viennoise_. The
prologue over, he launched into the melody; it rose and swelled about us
till it drowned my thoughts, till I could recall nothing but the details
of that stage tragedy that had been set to the music by a great actor. I
glanced at the others. Norman was worried by it; I saw him glancing
irritably at the window. The Chief sat as he had sat before, motionless,
leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. Presently the air
drew to its sobbing, tremulous end. Sir David sat up.

"At one time," he said, half to himself and half, I think, to me, "I
considered Kreisler's reputation to be misplaced."

He leaned forward upon his desk and began to talk. In a moment I saw how
far ahead of ours his mind had been working. "With the information
supplied by Captain Stenning," he said, "we stand a very fair chance of
detaining the vessel that brings the drug to the Scillies--unless, of
course, she lies-to to dispatch her launch at a point beyond the
three-mile limit. We should be able to detain the launch with tolerable
certainty. We might even be able to secure the aeroplane, and so to
solve the problem of her identity. From all these sources it should be
possible to obtain sufficient convictions to prevent the possibility of
any further cargoes being smuggled in this way. At the same time, it
seems to me to be extremely doubtful whether we should be able to break
up the organization in England--the clearing-house. Frankly, I do not
consider it likely that we should secure either the ship or the
aeroplane. There remains the motor-launch. Is the launch alone worth
securing?"

He shifted his position. "It might be. The possession of the launch
would certainly strengthen our demand for the extradition of Baron
Mattani from Italy. It might or might not lead to further evidence with
regard to the murder of Compton. It would be unlikely to lead to
evidence concerning the clearing-house. Consider. The men taken in the
launch in all probability will be entirely Italians--Fascists, no doubt.
For them to give information would mean that their return to Italy would
be impossible, considering the position held by Mattani. I doubt if we
could get much evidence from the capture of the launch."

I cleared my throat. "The aeroplane would probably tell us something, if
we could get hold of that."

Sir David stared straight ahead of him at the desk. "Would it tell us
very much about the clearing-house?" he inquired. "I rather doubt it.
Suppose we were to capture the aeroplane at the same moment as the
launch. We should then have the launch, the launch's crew, the
aeroplane, and the pilot of the aeroplane. I think the only one of those
who would be capable of giving us any information about the
clearing-house would be the pilot of the aeroplane."

"Very likely the pilot would know nothing about the clearing-house,"
said Norman, "unless he had a financial interest in the cargo. His
business would be to fly the machine. In any case, it's not likely that
he would give evidence."

Sir David was pursuing his own line of thought. "I put the dispersal of
the clearing-house as our primary object," he said at last. "It is not
going to be very difficult, I think, to put an end to this particular
mode of smuggling. The capture of the launch, for example, would give
such diplomatic leverage to the Foreign Office that I doubt if Mattani
would be in a position to carry on--for the moment. But if the
organization in this country remains untouched, then in three or four
months' time we shall have the whole trouble repeating, with a different
method of introducing the drug into the country."

He paused. "I should consider no scheme of operations satisfactory that
left out the clearing-house."

I turned to Norman. "I don't know how you work these things. But do you
see much chance of getting a line on to the clearing-house before the
16th?"

He shook his head. "There's only a week to do it in," he protested.
"Frankly, I know nothing about them yet. It's possible that one of the
men here may have information that will put us on the right track, or we
might have a bit of sheer luck--such as a conviction for disposal.
Failing that, I should begin working it on the elimination and inquiry
lines. We might get on to them within the week, but I shouldn't say it's
hopeful."

"I see," I said slowly. "Then the only other line to them is through the
aeroplane."

Sir David nodded. "The aeroplane might be the means of putting us in
touch with the clearing-house," he said. "Wherever it lands, it must be
met by the agents."

"They meet it in cars," I said. "The landing-place is changed from trip
to trip."

"That makes it rather difficult," said Norman quietly.

It certainly did. For a moment it seemed as if we had run up against a
brick wall. We just sat for a bit, looking helpless.

"There'd be one way of doing it," I said at last. "Let the aeroplane get
away with its load, and follow it in another machine. That seems to be
about the only way of getting in touch with the clearing-house--unless
you can do it by your usual methods."

The Chief eyed me for a moment. "I know very little about aeroplanes,"
he said, "but I imagine that there would be considerable practical
difficulties in doing that, Captain Stenning."

I considered for a moment. "It would be damn hard," I said. "I think it
might be done." I was thinking rapidly. "We should have the hell of a
job to get in touch with the seaplane without being spotted. That's the
first thing. But if we could do that--assume that we can do that ... I
think we can limit her possible landing-places to one or two definite
areas, and I think we can make a pretty good shot as to how she gets
there."

I paused to collect my ideas. "You see, we know this much. We know that
she leaves the Scillies an hour or so before dawn, and we know that she
flies well inland, and lands her cargo in the early morning. We don't
know where she lands. Well, first of all, as regards her range. I don't
believe she cruises at a greater speed than eighty-five--she'd be an
exceptional amphibian if she did. I don't suppose she refuels at the
Scillies; it would complicate things and keep her there too long. It's
the hell of a job filling up a seaplane, you know. I don't suppose she
carries more than five hours' fuel at the outside. And so I think we can
put down the extreme range from the Scillies as two hundred miles, or
more likely a hundred and fifty--to allow for headwinds."

They were listening to me intently now. I asked for a map and they
produced a large atlas; I opened it at a plate of Devon, Cornwall, and
the Scillies.

"First of all, about the possible landing grounds," I said. "We want a
place fairly remote from the sea. It must provide a really long run--at
least half a mile of smooth, level grass for an amphibian with a heavy
load. It must be in a very desolate neighbourhood. I don't know if
you've ever made a forced landing in ordinary country? No--of course you
haven't. But the excitement it causes is tremendous; the whole
countryside seems to hear of it in an hour or two. It's the children
that do it, of course. Even at that hour in the morning, a landing in
ordinary farmland would be bound to attract notice."

I stared at the map. "Anyway," I said, "there's nowhere in Cornwall. It
might be possible to work it all right on Dartmoor or Exmoor."

"They'd go farther inland," said Norman. "What about Salisbury Plain?"

I turned up another map. "It's a bit far," I said. "But it would be
quite possible, and much more central for the disposal of the stuff. But
anyway, the point that I'm making now is that they've got to fly beyond
Cornwall--probably a long way beyond. Now ... I'll tell you what I
should do if I was making that flight."

I paused again. "Starting, say, one hour before dawn, I'd make the
shortest sea passage possible. I'd have the wind up of my engine conking
miles out at sea. That is, I'd make straight for Land's End. That's
about thirty miles or so. It would still be dark when I got there. I'd
fly along the coast then--no matter where I was going to. It's easy to
follow the coastline in the dark, for one thing, and at night--on the
whole--I'd rather risk a forced landing on sea than on land. I should
have to fly pretty low to see where I was--probably under two thousand
feet."

"If you could be sure of that," said Norman, "it certainly might be
possible to get in touch with the machine."

"You can't be sure about it," I said. "But that's what I should do if I
had the job. Whether I should go up the north coast or the south depends
on where I was heading for. Whichever coast I went by, I should leave it
as soon as it became light enough to see my way, and head straight
inland for wherever I was going. I should fly higher then if I wanted to
keep out of sight."

Sir David interposed a question. "Suppose that you could pick up the
seaplane and follow it, and saw it land. It would still be very
difficult to effect any arrests. I imagine that it would be out of the
question to carry any considerable force of police in the following
machine?"

"One or two at the most," I said. "No, the arrest would have to be
carried out from the ground. The part of the following machine could
only be to keep in touch with the ground by wireless telephony, to tell
the police where the landing is taking place and to keep an eye on any
of the cars that got away."

"The difficulties would be enormous," muttered Norman.

I fully agreed with him there. At the most there would be perhaps twenty
minutes in which to make the arrest from the time of landing till the
agents were well away from the landing ground in their cars. If there
were only one car the aeroplane could follow it and keep it in sight; if
there were more than one, all but one would have to be let go.

"Of course we might be able to get some help there with additional
machines from the Air Force," said Norman.

We wrangled over the details of the scheme for a bit. At last Sir David
pulled out his watch.

"Get it worked out," he said to Norman. "If it comes to the worst we may
have to try something of the sort. But push ahead with the elimination
and inquiry for the clearing-house." He turned to me. "I am afraid,
Captain Stenning, that I am sufficiently old-fashioned to prefer the
conventional methods...."

He rose to go.

"Anyway," I said, "we seem to stand a pretty fair chance of getting at
Mattani, one way or another."

For a moment a wintry smile chased across his features. "I could view
that prospect with more enthusiasm, Captain Stenning," he said, "if the
House were not in session."

With that he took up his hat from the table, bowed to us, and went out.

I lunched with Norman, and after lunch we returned to the Yard and
settled down to the aeroplane scheme in earnest. When we came to put it
down in black and white it didn't seem to be so impossible after all. I
discovered that the resources of the Yard are simply enormous. The chief
difficulty that I could see was that of getting into touch with the
seaplane at all in the early dawn. It seemed to me that the following
machine would have to wait in the air on patrol somewhere about the
middle of Devonshire, waiting for news by wireless from ground
observation stations along the coast.

From Norman's point of view, the chief difficulty would come after the
seaplane had landed. Assuming that from the following machine I could
wireless the point of landing directly I saw the seaplane put down,
there would be an incredibly short space of time in which to effect the
arrest. The place of landing would be quite unknown. Though I could keep
in wireless touch with the ground during the flight and tell them in
which direction the chase was heading, the most that could be done would
be to concentrate a few police in various towns and trust to luck in
being able to rush them to the spot before the cars meeting the seaplane
had time to disperse. If, however, the cars dispersed before the arrival
of the police, they must be followed as well as possible from the air;
it was here that Norman was counting on the co-operation of the Air
Force. It should be possible, I thought, for one or two aeroplanes to
join in the pursuit, keeping well astern of me.

I didn't think that there was much danger of the pilot of the amphibian
getting to know that he was followed.

"But the whole thing depends upon our having decent weather," I said.

I went back to my flat and rang up Joan at Stokenchurch.

"Good afternoon, Miss Stevenson," I said. "Stenning speaking."

There was a sort of bumble on the line. I shook the receiver.

"I'm so glad you're back all right," she said. "I've been--I mean--how
did you get on? Did you find out anything?"

"A certain amount," I said. "I had quite a good time, really--a very
easy trip. But what I rang up for was to find out if you'd care to come
and have lunch with me one day. Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

"I'd love to," she said. "I'll come up to Town. Where shall we meet?"

"Not in Town," I said. "Don't like London--too many Dagoes in the
restaurants. Give me cold feet. Let's have lunch in the country
somewhere. I say--you know the Hornblower? That pub at the bottom of
Aston Rowant hill. They give you a corking good lunch there."

I heard her laugh. "That'll be spendid," she said. "I can drive over
there in the Cowley."

"Right you are," I said. "I'll drive down from Town. I'll probably be
there at about half past twelve."

I drove down there on the following morning and lunched with her at the
pub. I didn't like to talk about the Mattani business at table; I
remember that I was mortally afraid of anything getting out. They gave
us a rattling good lunch--the sort of thing one dreams about. It was a
bright, sunny day with a little wind that rustled the flowers on our
table by the window. I remember that we talked about flowers and
beechwoods and red squirrels and things, and when I remember that I
cannot help wondering a little. Queer subjects for me in those days.

We walked out a little way on to the hills after lunch, at my
suggestion. I wanted to get away from the waiters and people at the
hotel before launching out on my story. We walked slowly--she because it
would have been rude to outwalk me, and I because I had lunched too well
to hurry. And as we went I told her all about Italy and da Leglia.

There was a gate at the top of the hill leading into a spinney. We
didn't go in, but sat on the gate and looked out into the blue hazes
over Oxfordshire. I finished my yarn there, and told her about the
scheme for following the amphibian that we'd been getting out.

"Will you be flying that machine?" she asked.

"With any luck," I said. "It would be a pity not to be in at the death."

"It all turns on the smuggling now, then," she said a little later.
"There's no question of arresting Roddy for the present, is there?"

"Not much," I said ruefully. "He's rather faded into the background. You
see, it's going to be most frightfully hard to make out a case of murder
against him. We may get some decent evidence if we succeed in capturing
the ship or the launch, but at present we haven't got a case against him
that will hold water--on the murder charge."

"I'm rather glad of that," she said quietly. "It would be a dreadful
thing for him to stand his trial in England."

I knocked my pipe out sharply on the top rail of the gate. "It was a
dreadful thing when Compton got it," I said curtly. "He's going to stand
his trial for that, one of these days. We'll see to that."

She sighed. "I don't believe he meant it," she said. "I never did.
He--oh, he was different. Roddy wasn't like that. He couldn't have done
a thing like that.

"I went down and saw his mother," she said, "the day after I met you.
She's too old to understand."

I glanced at her. "This is a pretty miserable show for you," I said.

"It's like the sort of thing one reads about in the papers," she said
vaguely, "the sort of thing that happens to other people." She turned
and looked up at me. "Why do you say it's miserable for me?" she asked.
"You've had as much to do with it as I have--much more."

I didn't know what to say to that. "They're your people, for one thing,"
I said. "You know Mattani, and you knew Compton."

She nodded slowly. "I don't know what we should have done without
you--by ourselves, just me and Denis," she said unexpectedly. She was
silent then for a bit. I remember that I sat looking at her, at the soft
lights in her hair, at her slim grace. She reminded me of the drawings
of a man who used to do things in _Punch_, a man called Shepperson or
some such name. She was just like that.

She continued: "I can't think what we should have done by ourselves. You
don't know what a help you were--in every way. You braced up Denis so."
She laughed. "You know, we were both dreadfully afraid of you. You
looked dreadful with that cut over your eye, all bandaged and dirty. And
your coat made you so big.... Did you know you drank nearly a bottle of
whisky that night? Denis was awfully afraid you were getting drunk, and
it didn't have the least effect. I don't know what we should have done
without you. You came along, sort of grim and efficient, and took
everything on your shoulders."

"I suppose I'm more used to this sort of thing," I said at last.

I looked down, and saw her grey eyes fixed on me.

"How do you mean?" she said.

I laughed, and then wished I hadn't. I didn't like the sound of it.

"Birth, education, and upbringing," I said, a little bitterly. "I was
much better fitted for it than either of you."

She looked at me queerly, and I went on to tell her all about myself,
about my father who died on the China Station and my mother that I never
remember to have seen. I didn't dwell very much on my life before I was
sixteen because I don't very often think of it myself; to me it now
seems inconceivable that any well-meaning people could have given a boy
such a rotten time. But I told her how I cut away from such relations as
I had--about the wisest thing I ever did--and how I got a job as odd boy
in a motor garage, years before the war. After that I was a chauffeur
for a bit, at a place in Herefordshire. And then I told her how Pat
Reilly and I started a garage on our own with a capital of forty-one
pounds, and how we produced a cycle-car that was the hottest thing in
its class for six months--the Stenning-Reilly car. I told her what a
corking little car it was, and how proud we were of it, and how it was
going to make our fortunes; I still think we could have done it. Then
came the war, and I told her how we had chucked it at the beginning of
1915 and joined up. I told her something of what that had meant to us,
just as we had got the capital promised for setting up a little factory,
just as we were beginning to book orders for the car.

Then I went on to tell her how we had both got commissions before very
long, and I told her the story of how Pat was surrounded in his tank in
1917, and killed. I told her how I had gone on flying all through the
war with hardly a scratch. I told her about the life in France, too,
where between the patrols I learnt golf from one of the St. Andrews
caddies and boxing from an ex-welter-weight champion; and I told her of
the hectic, miserable leaves from France, when a dozen of us used to
come over and plant ourselves at the Regent Palace--never entirely sober
from one day to the next. Then I told her how I was sent home early in
1918 as an instructor, and how for me that proved to be the end of the
war. I went on and told her about my life after the war--my piloting, my
golf, and my little speculations.

I got tired of the sound of my own voice at last, and we stood leaning
against the gate for a bit looking out into the fields. Below us the
road to Oxford ran down the hill, the road that we had driven on that
first morning of all, when she was driving me to Abingdon on the first
stage of my run. I was about to remind her of this when she spoke again.

"You've had a very full life," she said quietly. "You don't regret that,
do you?"

I thought for a minute. I'd never looked at it like that.

"No," I said at last, "I don't. I've had a pretty good time, taking it
all round, and I don't know that I'd change it. But if it has been a
full life, it has been because I hadn't the wit to make it otherwise."

"How do you mean?"

I glanced at her. "Did you know that I had been in prison?"

She looked up at me, and smiled.

"Yes," she said simply.

I didn't expect that, and it put me badly out of gear. "Who told you
that?" I asked.

For a moment I thought that she was going to laugh outright. "Sir David
Carter," she said.

I tried to adjust my ideas a bit.

"Did he tell you anything else about me?" I asked weakly.

She nodded. "Lots of things that you've left out--all the really
interesting things."

I looked at her steadily for a moment, and then towards the path that
led down to the hotel. It was what a man like me had to expect, I
thought--and I can't say I found the reflection sweet. It was natural
that they should have found out all about me at the Yard. It was natural
that Sir David should have told his daughter's friend something about me
when he saw the way the wind was blowing, but--it was bad luck.

I looked at my watch. "I'm afraid we ought to be getting back," I said
evenly. "I've got to meet a man in Town at six."

"Oh ..." she remarked. "Sir David didn't tell me anything as bad as
that."

I swung round, and saw her still sitting on the gate and laughing at me.
That stung me up a bit.

"I don't suppose he did," I said. "There's nothing to tell. He probably
told you that I've been thrown out of half the theatres in London in my
time. He may have told you about that business at the Metropole, and I
dare say he told you about the row I had at les Trois Homards. If he
told you about that he probably told you about the girl, and how she
died."

"Yes," she said quietly. "He told me about that."

I turned away.

"Well, there you've got it," I said bitterly. "There's nothing
sensational--I don't go in for chicken butchery. I've never had anyone
to think about except myself. If you like, it's a record of a mean life,
meanly lived. You know how I started. Did you expect any more?"

I knew that I had hurt her. She slipped down from the gate and came and
stood beside me.

"Philip," she said, "you mustn't be so sensitive. You know I didn't mean
all those silly little things. You know they don't matter two hoots."

"I'm sorry," I said. "What did you mean?"

She glanced up into my face. "The other things," she said. "The things
you haven't told me about even yet. About your DSO, and why they gave
you the Military Cross."

I turned and faced her. "You mustn't think about those things," I said
evenly. "That was in the war--nearly ten years ago. But this is
peacetime, and those things don't count for anything now. Or they
oughtn't to. You mustn't let them."

"It may have been years ago," she said. "But they haven't forgotten
about them at the Yard."

"It's their business to remember things," I said.

She came very close to me. It was bright sunlight on the down. I
remember noticing a rabbit that came out from behind a patch of furze
about fifty yards away and looked at us.

"Philip," she said quietly, "you mustn't talk like that. You know Sir
David Carter thinks a frightful lot of you."

I took her by the shoulders. "I don't care a damn about Sir David," I
said. "But you--what do you think of me?"

She looked up at me gravely. "Philip dear," she said, "I think that
you're the best and truest man I've ever met."




                              CHAPTER NINE


I was pretty busy in the next few days that remained before the 16th.
They sent out a chap from the Yard to watch things in Italy, but by the
time he got out there the steamer had already left--we presumed for
England. I spent most of my time running backwards and forwards between
the Yard and the aerodrome.

We had a little trouble with Morris at first, who refused point-blank to
charter us a machine for the job. Civil aviation, he said, was a sober
and a serious business, and stunts for the sort that we proposed would
only serve to hinder progress by frightening away the man in the street,
who very naturally regarded flying as the special province of warriors,
criminals, and the like.

I made him see reason at last. Then he wanted to make a little money out
of us, arguing that the machine was to be utilized against the King's
enemies and so the insurance policy was void. We argued him off this,
and finally won his grudging consent. He stipulated:

(_a_) for the utmost publicity if the affair were a success, and

(_b_) for complete secrecy if, in his opinion, publicity would cast a
slur upon the firm.

I remember this amused Sir David. We could have got a machine from
Croydon without all this fuss, but I wanted to have my own mechanic on
the job. And I knew perfectly well that if Morris once took it on he'd
do his utmost to make a success of it.

I chose one of our light touring machines. She had a turn of speed of
about a hundred and twenty miles an hour, and she handled like a
fighting scout. She had a cabin to seat four; I decided to fill up a
part of the cabin space with extra fuel tanks, and in this way I
provided sufficient fuel for seven hours in the air. For a long time I
hesitated over the question of taking a passenger as an observer, and
finally decided against it. The view from the cabin was very much
restricted, and communication with him wouldn't have been easy. The
extra weight would have taken a little off the performance of the
machine. It meant letting someone else into the secret, and we didn't
want to do that till the last moment, when, of course, the signallers
would have to be instructed in their part of the business.

I had the machine fitted with the standard wireless telephone set. I
knew all about that and had used it regularly when I was flying from
Croydon on the cross-Channel service. The fitting up of the machine in
this way raised very little comment in the works. Morris gave out that I
was taking the machine abroad on a journalistic stunt, to rush back the
photographs and cinema films of the wedding of an archduke. We often had
those jobs to do.

So the days passed in preparing the machine. If what I had heard in
Florence was correct, the cargo was to be landed in the Scillies on the
night of Saturday--Sunday. On the Thursday afternoon I went to the Yard
for a final conference. They had kept me rather in the dark till then,
but now they produced all their plans and arrangements and showed me
everything.

Norman's part of the business put the wind up me properly--I wouldn't
have taken on a job like that for quids. He was to be the observer at
Marazan. He had had a telephone line run unostentatiously from St Mary's
to White Island, the rocky and uninhabited island to the north of
Marazan Sound. He proposed to take up his position there under cover of
darkness on the previous night, and to lie out there for the whole of
Saturday to avoid the possibility of being seen on the way to his
observation post.

Under the cover of darkness a destroyer and a sloop were to close the
islands from the direction of the southeast. During the early part of
the night these were to work round and lie off to the north of the
islands, showing no lights. Norman, in telephonic communication with
Hugh Town and so with the mainland, would watch events in the Sound.
Immediately after the departure of the amphibian he was to send up a
rocket. On that the sloop and the destroyer were to open up their
searchlights and arrest every vessel in the vicinity.

It seemed to me a pretty little plan, and quite likely to go through all
right. I must say I didn't care much for Norman's job. It struck me that
he'd stand precious little chance if the Dagoes happened to find out
that he was there.

My part of the business was not so difficult; for one thing, I had
plenty of help. My job was to stand by with the machine at a point not
very far from Taunton. I had chosen a large pasture there that the
machine could operate from, and in one corner of it the Sappers had set
up a field wireless station. This was in telephonic communication with
half a dozen observation stations up the north and south coasts of Devon
and Cornwall. I should wait on the ground till we had some news of the
amphibian travelling up the coast; then I should get into the air and
trust to luck to be able to pick her up in the dim light of the dawn,
keeping in touch with the Sappers by wireless telephony.

At Fowey and at Padstow the Anti-Aircraft lads were setting up
sound-ranging stations.

I had only one modification to suggest to these arrangements, but that
was one that saved our bacon later. I suggested that a line of posts
should be strung out along the Exeter-Barnstaple road that runs straight
across Devon from north to south. The Sappers laid a field cable along
the whole length of this road on the Saturday morning, and dropped a man
every three miles with a telephone that he could tap into the wire. All
through they did their part of the business extraordinarily well.

I flew down to Taunton on the Saturday afternoon, taking my mechanic
with me. The field that we had picked to fly from was a couple of miles
to the west of the town, not very far from the village of Grant Haddon.
It was a fine, sunny afternoon. We got down there at about six o'clock
after an uneventful flight. I found the field without difficulty,
circled round once for a look-see, and put her down gently on the grass.

There was a bell tent in one corner of the field with one or two
soldiers beside it, watching the machine. I taxied over to the tent,
swung the machine round into the wind, and stopped the engine. As I was
slowly unfastening my helmet one of the men came up to the machine.

"Captain Stenning?" he said.

I heaved myself up out of the cockpit and dropped down on to the grass
beside him. "Right you are," I said. "That's me."

I followed him into the tent. He had a vast amount of electrical gear
there that he said was a wireless station; I took his word for it. He
showed me the land telephone line that connected him up with all the
other stations, and then he showed me the petrol that had been provided
for filling up my machine. I left the mechanic to deal with this, and
went with an orderly to meet the officer in charge.

I dined alone that night, in a little hotel that I found in the village.
It was half full of summer residents, a couple of elderly maiden ladies,
an old man who looked as if he'd been missing his Kruschens, and a
honeymoon couple. I had nothing to do that evening till ten o'clock or
so, and was too restless to spend it in the tent gossiping with the
subaltern in charge. I wandered off to the village and found this little
place, and ordered a dinner that brought the proprietor hurrying to me
in respect.

It was a warm summer evening. I lingered for a long time over my dinner,
grateful for the quiet of the moment. I knew that I had a pretty tough
night before me; I think that even then I had a dim idea that when the
cold dawn came up over the fields I should be fighting for my life.
Certainly I made the most of that dinner. They served me well. They had
put me at a small table by an open window that looked over a croquet
lawn to a little wood; I sat there musing between the courses, my chin
upon my hands, staring out of the window, thinking about my engagement,
thinking about my golf handicap, thinking what a perfectly corking
country England was.

I shall always remember that evening that I spent alone in that little
pub, the night before I met Mattani. I had a straightforward job ahead
of me, a job that I knew I could do well. I had no worries. I remember
that I was most frightfully happy, in a quiet sort of way.

It came to an end, of course. I had my coffee out on the mossy lawn, and
then it was time for me to go. I paid my shot in the dusk of the little
hall, and strode out of the hotel. I passed the window of the
drawing-room as I went by outside; the lights were on and the window
open; I paused for a minute in the darkness and looked in. There they
all were. The two maiden ladies were sitting together in a corner, one
of them knitting, the other writing a letter on her knee. The old
gentleman was reading an old book, his spectacles insecurely mounted on
the extreme end of his nose. The honeymoon couple were sitting very
close together on a settee, reading the same book. It was like a bit of
Jane Austen.

I laughed, and swung away to my own life, the life that I knew, and as I
went I thought of that same old line of Kipling:

  _It is their care that the gear engages, it is their care that the
    switches lock._

I laughed again, and swung down the drive towards my work. I was still
smiling over this when I arrived at the field and saw the machine
looming darkly behind the bell tent.

I had a curious experience then. I found the officer in charge talking
into the telephone; he was a subaltern, and rather a good sort. He
turned as I entered the tent and nodded to me.

"Half a minute," he said into the telephone. "Here is Captain Stenning."

He was talking to Norman in his look-out station on White Island. I took
the instrument and spoke to Norman, and told him the detail of the
arrangements I had made. There was very little to discuss. I remember it
made a deep impression on me to be talking to Norman as he lay stretched
in a crevice of the rocks overlooking Marazan Sound. It made me feel
that things were beginning to happen. Norman had little to say. It
appeared that he had been very bored all day, and had attempted to pass
the time by a telephonic game of draughts with the coastguard at St.
Mary's, sketching the position of the pieces on the back of an envelope.
He remarked that he had suffered much from gulls and guano.

After that I went and sat with the subaltern at the mouth of the tent,
gossiping in a desultory manner. The night seemed interminable. Every
half-hour or so we rang up Norman, always with the same result; there
was nothing yet in sight. Always after that we rang up the round of the
patrols to make sure that everyone was awake. There were over twenty of
those calls; we left them to the corporal, so that by the time he had
finished with them it was time for us to speak to Norman again.

At about two in the morning one of the patrols a mile or so south of
Barnstaple rang up and said he heard an aeroplane.

When the subaltern heard this he gave a terse, monosyllabic comment that
expressed my opinion of the observer very well. He took the telephone
from the corporal and was about to speak to the man to tell him not to
imagine things, but I caught him by the arm.

"Steady a moment," I said. "That'll be the seaplane going down."

It hadn't struck me before--so far as I know, it hadn't occurred to
anyone--that we should hear the machine on its way to the Scillies. It's
the sort of detail that one is apt to forget. But there it was; the man
was quite sure it was an aeroplane. He thought from the sound that it
was a mile or two to the north of him, and travelling westwards. We rang
up Norman to let him know about this, and then we rang up the rest of
the patrols to tell them to keep an eye open.

It was really quite interesting. The man at Hartland seems to have
missed it, and the next we heard was from the sound-ranging station on
the headland above Padstow. They put the machine about a mile out to
sea; they waited for five minutes and gave us a second observation,
showing by the comparison of the bearings that the machine was
travelling down the coast. They gave it as their opinion that the engine
was a Rolls Eagle or Falcon, probably an Eagle.

That was the last we heard of her. We never got a report from Land's
End; we rang up half an hour later, but nothing had been heard there. We
came to the conclusion that the machine had left the coast for the
Scillies somewhere between Land's End and Padstow.

Then we sat and waited to hear from Norman. I went to the door of the
tent and had a look at the night. It was pretty clear by that time that
I should have a job of work to do before many hours were out. It was a
fine night with a bright moon, a little obscured by cloud. I remember
thinking how quiet it was. I strolled over to the machine and mooned
about it for a little, drumming with my fingers on the taut fabric of
the lower plane. The lamplight in the tent streamed from the open flap
and threw a broad belt of colour on the grass; over the tent the aerial
loomed mysteriously against a deep blue sky.

I ran over in my mind the various civilian aircraft that I knew were
fitted with a single Rolls engine. The information about the engine
narrowed the field considerably, but I was still quite unable to
identify the machine. I knew of seven machines fitted with one or other
of those engines that might conceivably be used for the job, but none of
them was a seaplane or amphibian.

Then Norman rang through. They called me from the tent; I went back and
spoke to him on the telephone in his lonely crevice on White Island. He
spoke as quietly as if he were in the room with me. I remember wondering
at his nerve.

"Is that you, Stenning?" he said. "All right--this is Norman speaking. I
can hear the machine quite close now. Yes, it's bright moonlight here;
I've got quite a good view of the Sound. There's a launch in the Sound
with her bows run up upon the beach. She came in about a quarter of an
hour ago. Yes, on the Pendruan beach about halfway down Marazan. Wait a
minute--the aeroplane's shut off her engine."

"Where's she putting down?" I asked. "In the sea or in the Sound?"

There was a silence. Away in the darkness I could hear a mouse or
something chittering in the field. At last Norman spoke again. "They've
lit a lantern in the stern of the launch," he said, "and two more that
they've placed upon the shore down by the water, near the entrance to
the Sound. Do you think those are the landing-lights?"

"That's it," I said. "She'll probably put down beside the one in the
launch, heading towards the two fixed ones. They point into the wind, I
suppose?"

He didn't answer, but a little later he said: "I can hear the machine
again now. Not the engine--I can hear the squealing of the wires in the
wind."

"She must be very close to you," I said.

Then he saw her. "Right. She's coming in to land now, gliding down on to
the water. Stenning! She's a float seaplane with two floats on the
undercarriage--but I don't see anything under the tail. She's a
single-bay machine--one lot of struts in the wings. She's quite a normal
design, but I don't know what type she is. She's painted some dark
colour on the wings and white or silver on the fuselage. I can't see any
registration letters. Are you there? Can you hear what I'm saying? All
right--you've got that. She's just landed on the water of the
Sound--she's lost way, and they're turning her in to the beach with the
engine throttled right down. You've got all that? Right you are. Now get
off the line while I speak to the Yard. I'll ring you again in a minute
or two."

I laid down the receiver and turned to the subaltern. "My God, they've
got a nerve!" I muttered absently. "Fancy trying it again in the same
place after last time."

He looked at me curiously. "What happened then?" he asked.

I hadn't realized that he had been told so little. "The odd spot of
murder," I said shortly. "They've got the nerve of the devil." I said no
more, because I didn't quite know how much he knew. I had been pretty
taciturn all the evening, so that I think he may have been a little in
awe of me. He didn't ask any more questions.

In a minute or two Norman was on the line again. "They've got the
machine up against the beach," he said, "but the engine is still
running. I can't see what they're doing down there."

"She won't stay long," I said. "If the engine's still running it means
that she'll be off again quite soon." I looked at my watch; it was about
half past three. "If she starts now," I said, "it'll be touch and go
whether I shall be able to pick her up, you know. It'll be damn dark
still by the time she passes here."

"I don't think she'll be long," he said. "I don't think she's aground on
the beach--she seemed to move a little then. I think there are people
standing in the water, holding her. They've still got the engine
running."

"No reason why they should stop it if they aren't going to refuel," I
said. "It won't take them long to load up the cargo. It's only about a
hundred pounds' weight, you know." I could see the subaltern out of the
corner of my eye, half crazy with curiosity at the one-sided
conversation.

"I hope to God the destroyer's in her station," muttered Norman. "Hullo.
They're turning the seaplane round. I can see the men wading in the
water now."

"She'll be off in a minute," I said.

There was a pause. "She's going off," he said. "They're taxi-ing towards
this shore, towards the Crab Pot, astern of the launch."

"Damn it," I said. "She'll be here too soon."

Over the wire there came the same level, quiet voice. "She's starting on
her run now, making straight for the two lights down on the shore. She's
about halfway across the Sound. Now she's lifting--she's in the air now,
up over the lights." There was silence for a moment. "Stenning! Can you
hear what I'm saying? The machine is in the air on the return journey
now. You've got that? Good. She went straight up over the lights and
then swung round to the right, out to sea. When I saw her last she was
heading about due north, and still turning. I can still hear the engine,
but it's getting fainter. It's up to you to have a go at her now."

"Right you are," I said. "I'll do my best. But it'll be damn dark when
she gets here."

He spoke again. "They've still got the landing lights showing."

"They'll probably leave those out for a bit," I said. "A dud engine
might bring her back."

"So much the better, if the launch isn't in a hurry to leave," he said.
"We don't want the aeroplane to see my rocket or the searchlights if we
can help it. I'd like to give her at least ten minutes to get clear."

"Wait till you see them take in the landing-lights," I suggested. "They
can't leave those on the beach."

I held the line and waited. There was absolute silence in the tent; I
could feel them looking at me expectantly. Presently I nodded to my
mechanic, and looked again at my watch.

"In about twenty minutes' time," I said quietly. "Get her going at about
four, or a little after."

He grinned at me and nodded. "All ready to start up any time," he said.
"Not half a moon out here. You won't want no lights for taking off." He
expectorated cheerfully. I saw the corporal look at him askance, and
resented it. I liked my mechanic. He had been with me on several long
trips abroad. He was a man of my own type. We laughed at the same
things, and at the same people.

Then Norman spoke again. "I'm going to let her go now," he announced. "I
can't hear the seaplane any longer, and the launch seems to be moving
about a bit. I think she must be well clear now. Yes, I've got a rocket
here all ready. I'm going to poop it off. Hold the line, and I'll tell
you what happens."

I have always wondered at his nerve. The men in the launch were only
three hundred yards away; he knew that they must be armed. He knew that
as soon as his rocket went up they would know what had happened, would
know that he was there, would know that they were caught. He banked
everything on their first impulse being to escape to sea. He bet his
life on that. As it turned out, he was right; they only fired one or two
shots at the place where the rocket had gone up from, and he had
arranged that ten or fifteen yards away to his flank.

I heard the rush of the rocket clearly through the telephone. Then
Norman was back again, speaking in his quiet, level tones.

"Stenning there? It's going all right, I think. Did you hear them
shooting? Only one or two, and nothing close. The launch is off--left
the lights on the shore and making for the open sea all out. Oh, good,
sir! Damn good! What? The sloop and the destroyer are out there--I can't
see which is which, but they've got their searchlights on a vessel. Yes,
she's well inside the three-mile limit. A small tramp, with one funnel
in the middle. They're closing on her now. I think they've got her all
right."

"Oh, damn good," I cried. "Damn good work!"

He spoke again. "I think they've got the steamer now," he said. "Look
here. Do what you can with the aeroplane. The odds are about five to one
against you, but do what you can. Don't worry if you lose her--there'll
probably be evidence on the steamer that will help us with the English
organization. The Navy are coming to fetch me off from here as soon as
they've made sure of the steamer. Are you all right? Have you got
everything fixed up as you like it?"

"I'm all right," I said. "I'll get into the air pretty soon, I think,
and get my wireless going."

"Right you are. I'm packing up now. We've got that ship all right; I can
see the destroyer alongside, and the sloop standing off a little way.
Cheer-oh, and good luck."

"I'll need it," I said, and put down the instrument. I turned to the
Sapper officer and told him briefly what had happened, that we had got
the vessel that had brought the dope to England.

"That's the stuff," he said phlegmatically.

I left him and went out to the machine. It was a little before four
o'clock; it was time I got under way. I talked for a minute or two to
the mechanic; then he left me and went clambering about over the engine.
I took my leather coat and helmet from the lower plane and began to
dress.

It was getting a little grey towards the east. The moon was still high
and there was plenty of light for me to see to get off the ground. The
subaltern came out and watched me as I made my final preparations. I
talked to him for a little about the wireless and the reports that he
was to put through to me. He wished me luck.

"Ready when you are," said the mechanic.

I clambered up on to the rounded fuselage of the machine and slid
heavily down into the cockpit. I busied myself there for a minute or
two, head down in the cockpit, settling into my seat and peering at my
faintly luminous instruments. Then I sat up.

The mechanic was standing ready by the propeller.

"Switch off?"

"Switch is off."

He began to turn the propeller slowly, blade by blade. I stared round
over the field, looking more spacious than it really was in the dim
light, and decided which way I would take off. There was very little
wind.

The mechanic stopped turning the propeller, settled one blade into a
convenient position, and stood waiting for me, both hands grasping the
blade above his head beyond the long tapering nose of the machine.

"Contact."

I thrust an arm out of the cockpit and fumbled with the switch on the
fuselage.

"Contact," I said. "Let her rip."

He flung the propeller round and swung clear; the engine fired with a
cough and steadied into a regular, even beat. I left her to warm up for
a little; then ran her up to full power and throttled down again.

I waved my hand and the mechanic pulled the chocks from under the
wheels. I settled my goggles securely on my helmet, and nodded to the
officer. Then I opened the throttle a little and we went rolling over
the grass towards the hedge.

Close to the hedge I swung her round and faced up into the wind. Before
me the field stretched, wide and dim. I remember that I was glad to be
flying again. I was getting back to work that was peculiarly my own. On
the ground I was one among many, but in the air it was different. There
weren't many people in England that were better in the air than I. That
heartened me, but there was another point, I remember, that appealed to
me very strongly at the time. It's not often that people like me get a
chance of doing something that's worth while in England. We knock about,
fly, make money and lose it, get drunk, get sober again, play golf ...
and do damn-all good to ourselves or anybody else. But just once and
again we get our chance--the chance to do with our cunning hands what
the whole world of cunning heads cannot achieve.

I pushed open the throttle, and we went rolling over the grass and up
into the air above the shadowy hedge. I let her climb on steadily
straight ahead as I always do when flying at night, and looked back to
mark the faint glow of the lighted tent. The country was in utter
darkness. I saw one light in what I imagined to be Taunton, and then I
picked up one or two coloured lights from the railway signals. For the
rest, it was as black as the pit below me.

I turned and flew back over the tent at about a thousand feet. Then I
set about winding down my aerial and getting into touch with the
wireless. I got through to them without difficulty. As soon as I plugged
in my telephones and switched on I heard the voice of the corporal
monotonously droning from the tent his call signal and my own.

I spoke to the officer, and as I did so I turned again in the dim light
and made for the north coast, near Watchet, climbing steadily as I went.
A glance at the map will show that the peninsula of Devon and Cornwall
narrows considerably in the region of Taunton, forming a sort of neck
barely thirty miles from north to south, from Watchet to Lyme Regis. It
was for this reason that we had chosen Taunton. Travelling all out I
could cover that thirty miles in about a quarter of an hour; in daylight
I should have the whole of it in view from the sea on one side to the
sea on the other at any height above three thousand feet, given decent
visibility. It would be luck if I succeeded in picking up the seaplane,
but I had a good sporting chance.

The east began to show very grey. I kept in conversation with the
subaltern as I flew on. There was very little cloud about to worry me; I
climbed to about seven thousand feet and steadied her at that. It was
high for observation in the half light--very high. I had two reasons for
it. In the first place, putting myself in the other man's shoes if I had
to fly over land unostentatiously I should fly high, and it seemed to me
that I ought to be above him at the beginning of the pursuit. The second
reason was that if I were well above him I should have an additional
advantage of speed over him, in that I could gain an extra ten or twenty
miles an hour by putting my nose down and gradually losing height.

When I was nearly up to Watchet the Sapper broke off the desultory
conversation that we had been keeping up. In a minute or two he spoke
again.

The sound-ranging people had reported an aeroplane near Padstow. They
had not sighted it, but reported that it appeared to be travelling
northwards along the coast. They identified it with the machine that had
gone down before.

The time was then twenty minutes past four. I scaled off the distance on
the map, made a guess at the speed of a float seaplane with a Rolls
Eagle, and came to the conclusion that she would pass Taunton a little
before five. I asked the Sapper to wake up the look-out on Hartland who
had missed the machine before, and set to patrolling between Taunton and
Watchet.

We had great luck with the weather. The dawn came up in yellow streaks,
and practically cloudless. I could see that visibility was going to be
good and got the wind up that I should be seen by the seaplane before I
could see them, and climbed to about eleven thousand feet. I thought I
should be pretty safe up there; I didn't think that the seaplane would
be able to get up so high as that without a great effort. I put six or
seven thousand as her comfortable height.

We got no report from Hartland. Later we discovered that the seaplane
turned inland in the neighbourhood of Boscastle and never went near
Hartland at all. We should have done better to have planted more posts
inland; as it was, it was the ones along the Exeter-Barnstaple road that
really pulled us through. At about a quarter to five one of them rang up
from a point a few miles south of Barnstaple.

The seaplane had passed about a mile to the north of him, he said. He
had seen it clearly. It was flying high, but when questioned he could
not say how high. We pressed him for a rough guess, and extracted from
him the opinion that it was about as high as a cloud on a fine day.

I edged down towards Taunton, and began searching the horizon and the
ground for any sign of the seaplane creeping slowly over the fields. It
was a heartbreaking task. The light was fairly good by this time, but
the detail of the ground, the pattern of the fields and woods and hedges
confused the eye. I could see nothing of the machine. Time slipped by,
and still there was no sign. I was getting thoroughly worried when the
subaltern spoke through the telephones into my ear.

"We can hear an aeroplane here," he said. "I'm not sure that it isn't
you. Where are you now?"

I leaned forward and spoke into the mouthpiece strapped to my chest.
"I'm about three miles south of Watchet," I said. "I'll throttle my
engine--see if you hear the note change. It'll take a minute or two
before you hear it, remember." I pulled the throttle back and put the
machine on the glide. "I've throttled down now. I'm making practically
no noise at all."

"Right you are," he replied. "Now wait while we listen."

I sat up and looked anxiously all round ahead of me. Without my engine I
was losing height rapidly, at the rate of about a thousand feet a
minute. I kept glancing at the slow movement of the second hand of my
wrist-watch. When a minute and a half had gone by I leaned forward and
spoke again.

"What's happening now?"

"The noise is still continuous."

"It's probably the seaplane. I'll give it half a minute more for luck
before I switch on my engine. Go on listening."

We sank lower and lower. At about nine thousand feet I tried again.

"What does it sound like now?"

"The noise is still quite continuous. I think it must be the
seaplane--can't be anything else. I've got all the men out looking for
it, but we haven't seen it yet. It sounds as if it was to the south of
us."

I opened my throttle, shoved the nose of the machine down, and went full
out for Taunton, losing height as I went. I was halfway there and doing
a hundred and forty miles an hour at six thousand when the subaltern
spoke again.

"Captain Stenning. Can you hear what I am saying?" He spoke very
distinctly. "We've sighted the seaplane. Your man saw her first. She's
about three miles due south of us now."

"Keep her in sight," I said. "I'm going to come right over you. Be ready
to give me a compass bearing of her when I'm directly above you. What
height is she?"

There was a pause. "Your man says she's about four thousand feet up."

I shoved my nose down a bit more and raced full out for Taunton. I had
revised my ideas about height. I should be coming up on the seaplane
from behind; in that position I should be less conspicuous if I were
below her, hidden by her own tail and with a dark background of fields.
Moreover, it would be easier for me to pick her up if she were
silhouetted against the sky. I kept in touch with the ground, and passed
over the tent at about a thousand feet.

As I drew near they gave me a course and a distance--southeast by east
about six miles. I swung the machine round on to the course and went
full out along that line, heading for Yeovil.

The voice of the subaltern spoke clearly into my ear. "Turn about ten
degrees more to your left," he said distinctly. "You are aiming behind
her."

I swung round a little, and then suddenly I saw the seaplane clearly
outlined against the sky.

"Right you are," I said. "I've got her now."

She was two or three thousand feet above me and several miles ahead; I
was creeping up on her fast. To reduce my speed I climbed a little and
finally took up a station a couple of miles behind her and fifteen
hundred feet below; I knew that in that position I would be practically
invisible from her. While I was getting into position I thanked the
Sapper for his help and told him to tell the Bournemouth Broadcasting
Station that I was trying to get in touch with them. We had arranged
that several stations in the south should be standing by, and we had an
inspector at most of them.

The Sapper said that my mechanic wanted to speak to me before they shut
down, and in a minute I heard him on the phone.

"Is that Captain Stenning? It's me speaking--Adams, sir. You come quite
close here--we seen you swing round and go after them a fair treat.
Don't forget that what I told you, about not running her too slow. It's
the perishing oil they give us--all right in the winter. Keep her going
and she won't give you no trouble. You give them blighters 'ell, sir.
That's right, you give them 'ell."

With that as a valediction I switched off; soon afterwards I picked up
Bournemouth and spoke for a little to the superintendent there. We
passed directly over Somerton and began to follow the railway in the
direction of Frome. It was pretty obvious by that time that we were
making for Salisbury Plain; indeed, I had been privately of that opinion
all along. There was really nowhere else that could give the secrecy in
landing that they would require. I felt this so strongly that I made the
Bournemouth people switch me through to Salisbury by a land line, and
spoke a few minutes to the superintendent there. He told me that he had
motors and police in readiness at Salisbury and at Devizes, and that the
Air Force were standing by with a couple of machines at Upavon.

We passed over Bruton. I was sure from the steady course that the
seaplane was keeping that I hadn't been spotted. I had done everything
that I could to ensure them a warm reception; my only duty now was to
keep Bournemouth informed of the course that we were heading. I had
leisure now to study the seaplane more closely; suddenly I realized what
she was, and why she had seemed vaguely familiar.

She was the old _Chipmunk_. She was the only one of her sort, built to
the order of a wealthy young coal merchant just after the war. I don't
know who it was who first called her the _Chipmunk_--her owner
repudiated the name vigorously. (He called her _Queen of the Clouds_,
and had it painted on the fuselage.) There was something about her tubby
lines that suggested a chipmunk, and it was as the _Chipmunk_ that she
was universally known. She was very slow. For five years she had been
entered for every King's Cup race, ambling round the course at a speed
that defied the most benevolent efforts of the handicappers. I knew that
she had been sold, and I knew to whom she had been sold--a young chap
called Bulse who described himself as a stockbroker. He was always about
at Croydon. It was the _Chipmunk_ all right. She had suffered a sea
change; her wheels and undercarriage had been removed and floats
substituted, probably with wheels incorporated to make her into an
amphibian. But there was no doubt about her.

I passed this information on to the superintendent at Bournemouth, who
forwarded it to the Yard. That gave us one good line to put us in touch
with the organization in England, at any rate.

We followed the railway as far as Bruton, but here we left it as it
trended a little to the north, and took a course that would carry us a
little to the south of Warminster. I got pretty busy with the wireless
again. Before us I could see the great rolling deserted stretches of the
Plain. I knew that the _Chipmunk_ might be landing any time now.

We passed a mile or so south of Warminster. Directly we were past the
town the _Chipmunk_ changed direction and headed a little more to the
north. I watched her intently, half afraid that they had spotted me.
Then as I watched I saw her tail cock and her nose go down into a glide,
and she began to lose height. She was going down to land.

I became furiously busy on the wireless. Everything was ready; I had
only to tell them the exact point of landing. I kept my eyes fixed on
the _Chipmunk_ as she slipped rapidly down on to the Plain, and turned
away from her, in order that they should not see my machine till they
were actually on the ground. I turned almost at right-angles and watched
her as she landed beyond my wing tip, and all the time I was telling
Salisbury about it. Then I saw her touch the Plain, run along, and come
to rest.

Within half a minute I had given Salisbury the map reference, and the
first part of my job was done. I knew now that the police were on the
way.

I was then at about a thousand feet and two miles to the east of the
_Chipmunk_, now stationary upon the grass. I reeled in my aerial, swung
the machine round towards her, and put my nose down to go and have a
look-see.

The machine had landed about three miles southwest of the little village
of Imber. There was a road that ran from Imber to Warminster across the
plain, and there were three touring cars halted together on this road at
the point nearest to the machine. The _Chipmunk_ was stationary on the
grass about two hundred and fifty yards from the road. As I got closer I
saw that there was a ditch running across the plain that had evidently
prevented the pilot from landing in a more convenient position for the
cars, or from taxi-ing towards them.

I don't know when they first realized that I was there. I came on them
from the east travelling at a hundred miles an hour or so at a height of
about a hundred and fifty feet, and flying erratically as I craned over
the side of the cockpit to have a good look. I saw the _Chipmunk_
standing on the grass with her engine stopped, and I saw a little crowd
of eight or nine men standing beside her, all looking up at me. Then, as
I passed over them, my eye travelled on to the three cars on the road, a
good two hundred and fifty yards away.

The cars were deserted.

I don't generally pride myself on rapid headwork, but when I saw that, I
crashed my hand down upon my thigh and broke into a burst of laughter as
I heaved the machine round in an Immelmann turn and dived straight on to
the _Chipmunk_. I saw at once what had happened. All the men in the cars
had run over to meet the seaplane when she landed, and there they were,
with a good two hundred and fifty yards of open grass between them and
their cars. To get away in the cars they had to cross the grass.

"By God!" I laughed. "_We'll_ show these ruddy Dagoes what's what!"

I dived for the seaplane with my engine full out and pulled up over her
at the last minute, missing her top plane by a few feet. I saw the
little crowd shrink close into the shelter of the seaplane as I dived on
them, and then I was up and away, and turning round in the cockpit to
watch their fright. I was really quite close to them for a moment, and
as I swept up over them laughing like hell I caught them looking up at
me, and I knew that they had seen me laughing. Then I thought of all
that I must mean to them--defeat, imprisonment, ruin, perhaps even death
itself. And then I thought of how they must have felt when they saw me
laughing at them, and I laughed again.

I should like to be able to record that I took what followed in a
serious vein. I can't say that. There is an elation in the dangerous
game of stunting an aeroplane close to the ground that quickly becomes
overpowering. I can only remember two sensations clearly during the next
ten minutes. The first was that I was laughing almost continuously, and
the other was that when I was not laughing I was singing the
unexpurgated version of a popular song.

I zoomed up from the _Chipmunk_ to a hundred feet or so and swung round
towards the cars again, watching them over my shoulder as a cat watches
a mouse that she has let free for a moment. I turned again beyond the
cars, and hung about there for a little.

In a minute they did what I had expected. They seemed to hold a little
consultation, and then three or four of them left the seaplane and began
to run across the grass towards the cars.

Instantly I heaved the machine round, shoved open the throttle, thrust
her down, and dived on to them, singing lustily all the time:

             _"Some girls work in factories,_
                _And some girls work in stores--_
             _And my girl works in a milliner's shop_
                _With forty other working ladies._
                _Oh, it ain't going to rain no mo', no mo',_
                _It ain't going to rain--"_

I was on them then. They were running in a little group. I was barely
a foot above the ground when I was fifty yards away, and I flew
straight at them like a tornado. I suppose my speed would have been
about a hundred and thirty or so. It was tricky work, because I didn't
mean to kill them. For a tiny moment they stood their ground, thinking
to call my bluff. Then they broke and threw themselves sideways on the
ground in all directions, and I shot through among them and rocketed
up over the seaplane. I skidded round in the quickest and lowest turn
I had ever done in all my life, and dived on them again.

          _"Some girls work in factories,_
              _And some girls work in stores..."_

They had hardly time to regain their feet before I was on them again,
diving straight for the thick of them with my engine roaring and the
propeller screaming like a good 'un. One or two of them were still
staggering to their feet, very unsteady; I didn't want to have an
accident and began to rise before I reached them. Again they had to
throw themselves in all directions, but I was higher this time and
missed them by a good three feet, I suppose.

Flesh and blood weren't made to stand that sort of thing. They broke up,
and when I came round for the third time most of them had regained the
shelter of the _Chipmunk_. There were two stragglers still in the field,
both running for shelter. I chased one of them as he ran as if to catch
him in the back with the tip of my port lower plane; he heard the
machine screaming after him and looked over his shoulder as the wing
bore down upon him. I hope I may never see such a look on a man's face
again. It was only a momentary glimpse; the next instant I had rolled
the machine and the wing passed a foot above his head. By the time he
had realized he wasn't killed I was fifty feet up in the air again, and
laughing at him over my shoulder.

They stayed close under the shelter of the _Chipmunk_ then. They knew I
couldn't get at them there.

I had won the first round and retired over behind the cars to wait for
the next. I watched them carefully as they stood under the shelter of
the seaplane; they seemed to be arguing the toss with someone in the
middle of the crowd. For a little while they made no move. I looked at
my watch, and found that the whole affair had taken rather under three
minutes. I realized that I should have to play them for an hour or so,
and came to the conclusion that I should have my work cut out. I knew
that the trouble would come when they realized that I had no intention
of killing them.

For what seemed a long time--perhaps a couple of minutes--they made no
move. Then a little squad of them came out from the shelter of the
machine and spread into open order, for all the world like infantry
attacking a position. There were six of them in the line; they spread
themselves out and began to run slowly out into the open. Behind them
came a man in a green raincoat, for all the world like an NCO.

I dived towards them. They waited till I was fifty yards away and then
deliberately lay down; the last man to go down was the man in the green
coat. He seemed to be encouraging them. I was worried about this. I
could have killed any one of them just as well when he was lying down as
when he was standing up, by lurching the machine down on to the ground
as I passed over them. But I didn't want to hurt them, and to frighten
them back to the seaplane was by no means so easy when they were
regularly manoeuvring in open order.

I swept over them about two feet above the ground. By the time I could
look round they were on their feet and running forwards again.

They ran about thirty yards, and then I was coming at them from a flank;
they lay down in an uneven line. I didn't try to frighten them this
time; I thought it would do them more good if I showed them what I could
do to them if I tried. I approached them at a slower speed than before
and aimed so that the wheels of my undercarriage would pass a yard or
two in front of their faces as they lay on the ground; in that way the
wing passed about three feet above their bodies. As I passed down the
line I gently "felt" the wheels down on to the ground, so that I passed
over them in a succession of gentle hops very close before their faces,
at a speed of about sixty miles an hour. A rabbit in line with my
undercarriage could not have escaped let alone a man.

I think they saw the point. With the exception of the man in the green
raincoat they were very slow in getting to their feet, and they turned
to argue with him as they rose. By the time they were on their feet I
had made my turn and was sweeping down on them again, the propeller
screaming like a six-inch shell. There was a bit of the metal tipping
with a jagged edge on one of the propeller blades that made a wonderful
scream when she was all out.

That dive settled it. They weren't ready for me, engrossed as they were
in arguing with the man in green. They flung themselves in all
directions as I swept through among them, and when I looked round they
were all on their feet again and racing back towards the seaplane. They
had farther to go this time, and I got in two dives at them to chase
them home. I went too close altogether to one of the men, and for a
moment I had a sickening feeling that I must have hit him. I hadn't, but
I must have been very close.

On the second of these runs I suddenly became convinced that they had
been shooting at me. I had seen nothing hit the machine, but somehow I
knew that they had been firing.

I knew that I couldn't keep them there for long. I knew that I had
frightened them badly, but with all that they had at stake it could only
be a matter of a minute or two before they tried again. It struck me
then--I think it probably occurred to them at the same time--that if
only one of them could get across to the cars he could drive one of them
across the grass to the seaplane; then they could all get away in safety
by walking beside the car on its return journey. Obviously I couldn't
dive on to a car. I should come off worst if I hit it.

They had been quiet by the seaplane for some minutes now. I flew towards
them close to the ground to see what had happened. I was about a hundred
yards away from them when they opened fire on me, and opened fire with
something uncommonly like a machine-gun, too. I saw the steady flashes
from among the crowd, and I heard or felt one or two of the bullets whip
past me, and I saw a couple of strips of fabric leap up from one of the
planes where the bullets passed through. Then I was up and over them,
and circling at a safe distance to see what they would do next.

I saw the gun later. It was one of the Bartlett guns that the
Australians tried to sell to the Riffs in their show against Spain. It
was more of a pistol than a gun, though it was fired from the shoulder;
it loaded with a clip like an automatic pistol and went on firing till
its twenty shots were done.

I hadn't long to wait for developments. A man came out alone from the
shelter of the seaplane and began to run towards the cars, and I saw at
once that it was the man in the green raincoat.

I swung the machine round and dived on him.

      _"And my girl works in a milliner's shop_
         _With forty other--"_

I wasn't ready for what he did then. When I was still some distance
from him he dropped on one knee; I saw then that he had the gun. I saw
him take aim deliberately, and wrenched the machine from side to side
in a zigzag path. In a moment the shots were flying all around me; one
went home into the fuselage just behind my seat. He threw himself on
the ground as I approached, and I lurched the machine down as close to
him as I dared; then I was up and away again. When I looked round the
man in the green coat was on his feet and running forward.

I had not been hit, but I had had a great fright. Suddenly I knew as
clearly as if I had been told who it was that I was up against. There
was nobody else that it could be.

I think it was that that stiffened me. I was miserably afraid of being
killed. But as I swung the machine round to dive on the man in the green
coat again I thought of Compton, and I remember thinking something about
dope, and I know I remembered for a moment the girl that I used to go
about with that first wonderful summer after the war, and the fine times
we had had together. All that must have passed through my head pretty
quickly, because by the time I was straight and diving on Green Coat
again I knew that I simply mustn't let him get to the cars. It was up to
me.

I made a fool of myself then. I came at him straight from a good two
hundred yards away instead of swooping down on to him from above. That
gave him a fine target. For five seconds or so I was heading straight
for him and unable to dodge to any great extent, and in that five
seconds he raked me from end to end. How he missed the engine is a
mystery. He was nearly halfway to the cars; I saw him drop down on one
knee and then the bullets came crashing home. They all came from the
left side. One cracked in my left shoulder and out through the
shoulder-blade, and knocked me flying back in my seat; at the same
moment another went through my left forearm, breaking one of the bones.
A third ripped my breeches on the left side from the knee to the seat
and only grazed the skin without drawing blood, and a fourth chipped a
bit off the heel of my boot. The instrument-board in front of me stopped
several; there were three bullets in the revolution counter when we came
to take it down.

I'm really damn proud of what I did then, though I say it myself. I had
only one hand to fly with; my throttle hand was hanging loose and
dangling till I managed later to put it into the front of my coat. But I
was flying straight for Green Coat when I was hit. I know the machine
lurched horribly for a moment, but I pulled her straight again and went
on. He threw himself flat as I came at him. I pushed the machine down
carefully, as carefully as if I had been fit, as if my cheeks had not
been quivering, my head swimming, and the blood running down my back. I
cleared him by a few inches as he lay on the ground. I could have killed
him with the tiniest pressure of my thumb. If I had allowed the tremors
that were shaking me to reach my hand he would have been dead, but I
steadied the stick against my knee. I only frightened him. I had meant
to clear him when I started on the dive, and clear him I did. I shall
always be proud of that.

I swung up from that dive, sick and dizzy, and turned slowly when I had
reached a sufficient height. Green Coat was on his feet again and
running towards the cars. I could only think of one thing--that at all
costs I must head him off. It was up to me. I thought that I was going
to be killed, but this had become a personal matter now and I could no
more let him get away with it than I could have put my left hand to the
throttle. I must have another shot at him, and I flung the machine round
and dived on him again.

He was very near the cars now. As soon as he saw me coming he dropped on
one knee again and took deliberate aim. I was too far gone to do much in
the way of dodging and swerving, and bore straight down on him, waiting
miserably for the next burst of shots. He opened fire--and then one of
those little things happened that really make a man believe that
somewhere, somehow, there must be a God. The gun fired two shots, and
jammed.

I could see that something had happened. I could see him kneeling up and
wrestling with the gun, his head down over it, not looking at me. I knew
that he would throw himself flat before I reached him, and I lurched a
little lower in a final attempt to frighten him from the cars.

He was still kneeling up when the nose of the machine hid him from my
view.

At the very last moment I got the wind up, and heaved violently on the
stick to pull the machine up. I hadn't seen him lie down.

It was that last-minute effort to save his life that probably saved my
own. But for that the machine would have crashed down on to the grass
and gone flying head over heels. I say now what I have said all along,
at the inquest, at the private police inquiry--that I never meant to hit
him. I should have said that anyway, I suppose. But as it happens, it's
true. I know that Joan believes me, and I think Sir David Carter does.

I had thought that he would lie down, as he had done all along. He
didn't.

I had pulled her up and she was rising, when she lurched heavily forward
and to starboard. I pulled the stick violently over to the corner of the
cockpit and gave her full rudder, but she struck the ground, not very
hard, but with a wrenching action that pulled the tyre off one wheel and
left it lying on the grass. She bounced up heavily, staggered,
side-slipped, scraped the grass again, and rose into the air, under
control once more.

It had been a bad moment while it lasted. I couldn't turn in my seat,
and I was feeling so sick that it wasn't till I was well over a hundred
feet up that I dared to risk turning the machine to look what had
happened. And then I saw what I had done. The man in the green raincoat
was lying crumpled up over the grass, face downwards. I flew low over
him half a dozen times, craning painfully over the side of the cockpit,
but I never saw him move.

That was the end.

I flew round and round the seaplane for a quarter of an hour after that,
determined not to give in and land till the pain and my growing
faintness forced me to do so while I still had my wits about me. But the
little group under the shelter of the seaplane never stirred. They had
had their lesson; they had seen one man killed and that was enough for
them. If I had landed unprotected they would have rushed for the cars,
and they might not have been above the odd spot of murder--there were
some ugly-looking coves among them. It was certainly up to me to keep in
the air for as long as possible.

That wasn't very long. It was about a quarter of an hour afterwards that
I looked up and saw aeroplanes overhead, three Siskins manoeuvring down
in ever-widening circles. I don't think I wasted much time in landing. I
was sitting in a pool of blood by that time, and the shoulder was giving
me hell. The arm hurt very little.

I landed about a quarter of a mile behind the seaplane, and so aimed my
run that I finished up not very far from the cars, and about a hundred
yards from the dead man. I had been afraid that my undercarriage was so
damaged that it would collapse as I landed, but nothing happened; I came
to rest normally and remained sitting in the machine.

In a few minutes one of the Siskins landed close beside me; the other
two kept circling low overhead. I saw the pilot of the machine that had
landed looking across to me curiously as we both sat doing nothing. I
stopped my engine and waved my sound hand to beckon him near. He taxied
his machine close, heaved himself up out of the cockpit and jumped down,
and came across to me.

He helped me all he could, but it was a painful business getting out of
the cockpit and down on to the ground. He cut my coat free and lashed up
my shoulder stiffly for me, and put the arm in splints with a couple of
spanners and his scarf. He had just finished doing this when the police
arrived in a couple of cars, and went over to the seaplane to take
possession of the prisoners.

Two of them helped me to walk to one of the cars. They didn't like
letting me walk farther than was necessary, but I insisted on making a
detour to where there was a little crowd of men standing in a group
about something huddled on the ground.

The little crowd parted as I came near.

It seemed that I had hit him on the shoulder as I rose, that I had as
nearly as possible missed him altogether. There was very little to show
the violence of his death; the green raincoat was not even torn, but
they told me that his back was broken. One of the men was examining the
gun.

I stooped painfully over the body. The face was strangely dignified and,
in some queer way, attractive. It was the face of a man rather over
forty years of age; the hair was already a little grey about the
temples. It was a powerful face, clean-shaven, with lines about the
mouth that I thought suggested humour. I could see the resemblance to
Compton in him, but in the great strength of the jaw he was different.
It was the face of a man who could have done anything.

That was the only time I ever saw Mattani--Roddy, they had called him.

They were escorting the prisoners back from the seaplane to the road,
each in the charge of a constable. They had to pass close to where we
were standing, and suddenly I saw Bulse, the pilot of the seaplane.

I had met him once or twice at Croydon. He nodded to me, and they let
him pause a minute.

"Morning, Stenning," he said. "So it's you. I knew it must be either you
or Padder by the flying. Sorry to see you're hurt."

I looked down to the grass. "It's a pity this happened," I said, and he
followed my glance.

"It was a fair show," he remarked. "He seems to have shot you up all
right. It looked to us as if you didn't mean to do it."

I shook my head. "It's probably better this way," I said slowly. "It was
a hanging matter if we'd got him."

He started. "Good Lord--I didn't know that."

I looked at him closely. I knew that he was speaking the truth. "I don't
suppose you did," I said at last. "But one way and another he was a
pretty bad lot."

He may have been, but I was to have a curious proof of the great
personality and charm that had endeared him to everyone with whom he
came in contact. One of the prisoners heard what I said in passing, and
halted in defiance of his escort. I heard later that he kept a small
chemist's shop in Blackpool.

"Who are ye calling a bad lot?" he snarled. "Ye're a liar, and ye know
it. Mister Mattani was a champion man."

He shot a swift glance at me, extraordinarily vindictive.

"Ye bloody murderer!" he said.






[End of Marazan, by Nevil Shute]
