The Shadow in the North (28 page)

Only a moment later Sally's landlord opened the door. He was an old friend; he'd worked for Frederick in the old days, before Sally had arrived, and he knew them all well. He was looking worried.

"Is Sally here?" said Jim.

"No, she left earlier on," said Mr. MoUoy. "She come in, I dunno, about five in the morning, I suppose, changed her clothes and left. She was looking terrible. What's going on, Jim? What's happened to your leg?"

"Listen, old boy: there's been a fire at Burton Street. Fred's been killed. Sorry to spring it on you like this. But I've got to find Sally, 'cause she's going to put herself in trouble. She didn't say anything about where she was going?"

The little man had gone pale. He shook his head helplessly. "Mr. Fred—" he said. "I don't believe it."

"I'm sorry, mate. It's true. Is your missis here?"

"Yes. But—"

"Tell her to wait here for Sally, in case she comes

back. And if you want to help, you couldn't do better than cut along to Burton Street. I reckon they could do with a few spare hands right now. Oh—" A thought had struck him, and he looked around the neat hall. "Got anything of Sallys? Here, this'U do."

Mr. Molloy looked up, blinking, as Jim reached up and took a bonnet that Sally often wore off a hook near the door.

"But where are you going?" said the little man. "What's going on, Jim?"

"I've got to find her," Jim said, hobbling down the steps as best he could. "Go and help Mr. Webster; that's the best thing to do."

He swung himself into the cab, gritting his teeth against the pain, and called up, "Hampstead, mate. Kenton Gardens—number fifteen."

MACKINNON'S LANDLADY shrank back when she opened the door, recognizing Jim from the day before.

"It's all right, missis," he said. "No trouble today. Is Mr. Mackinnon in?"

She nodded. "But—"

"Ail right, then. I'll come in, if I may. Stay there!" he called to the cabby, and limped inside, sweating now as the pain took hold, and sat down on the stairs to pull himself up backward. The landlady watched, open-mouthed.

At the door of Mackinnon's room he pulled himself upright again and banged hard with the stick.

(

"Mackinnon!" he called. "Let me in, will you?"

Silence from inside. Jim banged again.

"Come on, open up! For Gods sake, Mackinnon, this is Jim Taylor. I'm not going to hurt you—I need your help."

There was a shuffling, and a key turned in the lock. Mackinnon looked out, pale and suspicious and sleepy, and all Jims anger nearly boiled over. So much to do, and this miserable worm had crawled back here to go to sleep! With an eflFort he controlled himself.

"Let me through, will you?" he said. "I've got to sit down. ..."

He hobbled to a chair. The landlady had wasted no time getting fresh furniture in; the room still bore the scars of yesterday's fight, but the bed and the wardrobe at least were brand-new.

"Sally," Jim said. "Where'd she go? Any idea?"

"No," said Mackinnon.

"Well, we've got to find her. Now there's a trick you do, I don't know what it's called—not a trick, I mean, some kind of psychic thing—I've read about it. I think you're a genuine psychic, aren't you, at least part of the time? Take this."

He handed Sally's bonnet to Mackinnon, who took it and sat limply on the bed.

"I've read that what they do is they take something that belonged to the person and concentrate on it, and they get an impression of where that person is. Is that right? Can you do that?"

Mackinnon nodded. "Aye," he said, licking dry lips. "Sometimes. But—"

"Go on, then. That's hers. She used to wear it a lot. You've got to find out where she is, and you've got to do it now. Go on—I won't interrupt. Tell you what, though—if you've got a drop of brandy in here, I wouldn't say no. ..."

Mackinnon glanced at Jim's leg and produced a silver flask from the bedside table. Jim took a deep swig and caught his breath as the fiery liquid ran down his throat. Mackinnon picked up the bonnet.

"Very well," he said. "But I guarantee nothing. If I see nothing, I can tell nothing. And this is hardly the time to ... I know, I know. Let me concentrate."

He sat down on the bed, holding the bonnet in both hands, and closed his eyes.

Jim's leg was throbbing vilely. His head was aching too. He took another mouthfiil of the spirit from the flask and let it trickle down slowly this time and closed his tyts like Mackinnon. One more mouthfiil, and then he screwed the top back on the flask and put it in his pocket.

"North," said Mackinnon afi:er a minute. "She's going to the north. I think she's in a train. I have the impression of a silver emblem. A star, maybe? Aye, that's what it is. It could be her destination, I suppose."

"North Star," said Jim. "That makes sense. She's going north, you reckon?"

"No doubt about it."

"Where?"

"Well, she's still traveling. This is not an exact science, you know."

"Fm aware of that. But can you tell, northeast or northwest? Or how far north she is now?"

"It s fading. You mustn't question so much," Mackin-non said severely. "Now it's gone altogether."

He dropped the bonnet on the bed and stood up. Jim pushed himself up on the stick.

"All right," he said. "Get dressed, then. I don't know when you left Burton Street. Perhaps you don't know that Fred's dead. He was the best pal I ever had, and I'm never likely to find a better. And now Sally's gone and put herself in danger, and we're going to find her, you and me. I don't know what I'd do if she went as well, 'cause I love her, you know that, Mackinnon? You know what that means, love? I love her like I loved Fred, like a pal. Wherever she goes, I go, and you got to come with me, 'cause it's on account of you that they got into this mess in the first place. So get dressed, and hand me that Bradshaw."

Speechless, Mackinnon passed over the railway guide and began to put on his clothes as Jim turned the pages with a trembling hand and looked for the Sunday connections to the north.

Cjower and QJe

ervice

Bellmann's house was oppressively warm and richly, almost densely, furnished. The servant asked Sally to wait in the hall and offered a chair, but it was too close to a radiator, and she preferred to stand next to the window. There was a coldness inside her that she didn't want to dissipate.

After a minute or two the man came back and said, "Mr. Bellmann will see you now. Miss Lockhart. Follow me, please."

As they left the hall a clock struck nine, and she was surprised at how much time had passed. Was she losing her memory? She felt more and more remote from the world. Her hands were shaking badly, and her head was throbbing.

She walked after the servant down a carpeted corridor and stopped while he knocked at a door.

"Miss Lockhart, sir," he said, and moved aside to let her in.

Axel Bellmann was in evening dress. It looked as if he had just dined alone, for there was a decanter of brandy and a single glass with the scatter of papers on the desk.

He got up and came toward her, hand outstretched. She heard the door close, but only dimly, because there was a roaring in her ears, and she dropped her bag. It fell heavily to the rich carpet. He bent at once to pick it up for her and helped her to a chair.

She realized with a blush at her own stupidity that she had been going to slap him. To slap him—as if that would make the slightest difference!

"May I offer you some brandy. Miss Lockhart?" he said.

She shook her head.

"Something warm, then? You have come in from the cold. Shall I ring for coffee?"

"Nothing, thank you," she managed to say.

He sat down opposite her and crossed his legs. Sally looked away. The room they were in was even warmer than the hall, if possible, because not only was there a large iron radiator under the window, but a fierce fire burned in the grate—coke, she noticed. All the furniture was new. There were prints on the walls—shooting scenes, fox hunting—and above the mantelpiece and between the windows hung various sporting trophies: anders, the head of a stag, a foxs mask. One wall was entirely covered in bookshelves, but not one of the books looked as if it had ever been opened. The room had the air of having been ordered complete from a catalog, with all the conventional accessories for a wealthy gentleman's study, without his having the trouble of as-sembUng them himself

Then she looked back at Bellmann and saw his eyes.

They were alive with compassion.

She felt as if she'd been suddenly stripped naked and plunged into a snowdrift. She had to catch her breath and look away, but then she felt her tyts drawn back again, and she hadn't been wrong: there was compassion and understanding and tenderness in his face, or she couldn't read human expression at all. And strength—such a strength as she hadn't seen since her childhood, when she woke from a nightmare to cling to her father and saw from the love in his eyes that she was safe, everything was secure, there were no bad things in the world.

"You killed Frederick Garland," she said in a shaky whisper.

"You loved him?" Bellmann said.

She nodded. She didn't trust her voice.

"Then he must have deserved your love. I knew when you came to see me the first time that you were a remarkable young woman. That you should come again at this time means that I was right. Miss Lockhart, you shall have the truth now. Ask me what you will—I promise I shall give you the truth. All of it, if you want."

"Did you kill Nordenfels?" she said. It was the first thing that came to mind.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"We disagreed over the fiiture of the Self-Regulator.

He came to think of it as disgusting, and wanted to destroy all records of it so it would never be built; I saw it as a device to promote human happiness. We quarreled and fought a duel like gentlemen, and he lost."

His voice was quiet, his tone frank and sincere, but it was out of joint with his words. She couldn't take in what he was saying.

"Human happiness?" she said.

"Would you like me to explain?"

She nodded.

"It is simply that the Self-Regulator is too appalling to be used. Once enough of them have been built, wars will come to an end, and civilization will develop in peace and harmony for the first time in the history of the world."

She tried to understand how that might be true. Then she said, "Did you arrange for the IngridLinde to disappear?"

"The steamship? Yes, I did. Would you like to know how I arranged it?"

Sally nodded. She felt unable to speak.

"She carried a gasification plant in her engine room, like most coal-burning ships. A Capitaine Marine Gas Plant, to be precise. It burned some of the coal to produce gas for lighting and so on, and the gas was stored in a large, expandable metal tank. Very safe, you know. Now, also in the engine room, on the main shaft that turns the screw, there was an automatic counter. It clicked on one turn every revolution, and told the

engineer when to grease the bearings. Well, inside that counter I soldered a series of metal pins that would line up when a certain number was reached—a number that would mean the ship was somewhere in the middle of the sea. When that happened, the pins would complete an electrical circuit and fire a spark plug that I had put in the main gas tank. Naturally I was not there to see it take place, but judging by the result, it must have worked, don't you think?"

Sally felt sick. "But why did you do it?" "First, because it hastened the decline of the Anglo-Baltic company, which I needed to accomplish for financial reasons. You had spotted that when you came to Baltic House; it was astute of you, but you could not have known the second reason, which was that on board the ship was an agent of the Mexican government bound for Moscow, with documents that would have induced my Russian backers to withdraw their support. That would have been disastrous. As things stand now, I am on the point of signing a contract with that same Mexican government, so everyone has benefited— workers and their families and children, whole communities, both in this country and in Mexico. There are poor children in Barrow who will eat and go to school because of what I have done. There are families in Mexico who will have medical supplies, clean drinking water, transport for the produce of their farms, security, education—all because I sank the Ingrid Linde. It was a

completely humane act, and if I had to do it again, I would do it without the slightest hesitation."

"What about the innocent people who died?"

"I cannot pretend to regret the deaths of people I never knew. No one can do that. If they say they do, they are lying. Humbug, I believe you call it. No, I promised you the truth, and this is the truth: I do not regret killing those people. If I had not sunk the ship, a much greater number would have died—of starvation and poverty and ignorance and war. It was an act of the highest charity."

Sally was feeling dizzy, seated though she was. She closed her eyes and tried to control the sickness, tried to bring Fred back to mind, tried to remember what she was doing and why.

Eventually she said, "What about your connections with the British government? When Mr. Windlesham came to Burton Street on Saturday night he told us the names of some officials who were in your pocket. Why do you need to work like that? And why did Mr. Windlesham come to us, anyway? We didn't believe him when he said North Star was on the point of collapsing. I think you sent him."

"Of course I did. I sent him to spy. But you ask about the government—it's a very interesting, very delicate matter. . . . Of course, you know that the real business of government is carried on far out of the public eye. You may not be aware that much of it is unknown

even to ministers, sometimes even to ministers of the departments that might be expected to be concerned. It is so with all states, of course, but particularly so with Britain, for some reason. Thanks to the contaas I made through Lord Wytham (though their purpose was quite unknown to him) I have my hands now on the levers of real power in Great Britain. But, you know something, Miss Lockhart: in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand, this secret power, this invisible authority which no one has voted for, works for good. For the benefit of the ordinary citizen. In hundreds of ways that they would never understand, ordinary lives are better for this benevolent oversight, this hidden, fatherly hand that guides and protects. Among all men who are truly powerRil—and, as I've explained, that is not always the men the world thinks are powerful— there is a kind of comradeship, an ideal, almost a freemasonry of service. Has the life of the employees of North Star improved? Is it better than when they were making locomotives? Of course it is. Go and look into their houses. Visit the schools. Inspect the hospital that we have just built. Watch a football match on the sports ground we have laid out. They are prosperous and healthy and happy. They don t know why, but you and I know. When wars have finally ceased, when peace reigns all over the world, they won't know why either; they'll put it down to improvements in education, or an evolution in the human brain, or the sophistication of the economic system, or an increase in churchgoing, or

better drains. We shall know better. We shall know that the real reason is that gun which is too horrible to be used. But it doesn't matter that they wont know; let them feel the benefits—that is all that matters."

Sally sat quietly, her head bowed. It was all slipping away from her.

"What do you wantV she said.

"Oh, power," he said. "Power is very interesting. Shall I tell you why? Because it is infinitely changeable. You take money, which is financial power, and with it you employ men—muscle power—to build you a factory, and in the factory you burn coal, which is the power of heat, and you change water into steam, and you lead the power of the steam into the cylinders of an engine and turn it into a mechanical power, and with that mechanical power you build more engines, and sell them, and turn them back into financial power again; or you take your steam engines and make a dam to hold back vast quantities of water, and construct pipes and valves and let the water run through with great force and turn a dynamo, so that the power of money changes into water power, which changes into electrical power, and so the changes go on, infinitely. Another word for it is energy, of course. An English poet—so Windlesham tells me, I have not enough time to enjoy the poets—an English poet wrote 'Energy is eternal delight.' I could not express it better. Perhaps that is why we have poets." I Sally could think of no answer. She knew with some

distant part of her that he was utterly wrong, that there were arguments to refute everything he said, but she knew she'd never find them now. He was so strong, and she was so tired. She swayed, pulled herself upright, and forced herself to raise her head to look at him.

"You're wrong," she said, and her voice was hardly audible. "About the people. I know what they say. They hate the Steam Gun, your workers. They know what it means, and they loathe it. You keep it secret because you're afraid of what people would think if they knew—that's the only reason. You know the British people wouldn't stand for it if they saw it clearly for what it is—a tyrant's weapon, a coward's weapon. You misjudge us, Mr. Bellmann. You misjudge your workers and you misjudged me."

"Oh, I didn't misjudge you," he said, "I admired you from the start. You have true courage, but you are innocent. These British people you mention: shall I tell you the truth? If they knew, they wouldn't mind. They'd have no scruples about making the most horrible weapon ever invented—none whatever—^they wouldn't^ give it a thought. They'd take their wages and enjoy their sports field and be proud of their children and, in fact, you know, they'd be proud of the weapon as well, and want one with a British flag on it, and sing about it in the music halls. Oh, there are a few idealists, pacifists—harmless people. There is room for them. But the majority are as I describe, not as you describe. Reality is with me. I promised you the truth: there it is."

And she knew that he was right.

She looked across at him again. He was still sitting calmly, relaxed, powerful, one leg over the other, hands resting along the arms of the chair. His hair shone gold in the lamplight; his face was unlined, she noticed now, and full of a strange, luminous wisdom, yet with an undertow of rippling humor, as if to say Pain and suffering and sadness — yes, they exist, but they are not the whole, and they pass. The world is delightful, like the play of sunlight on water. Energy is eternal delight. . . .

"You know," he said after they'd been silent for almost a minute, "I made a mistake in seeking the hand of Lady Mary Wytham. She is very beautiful, and the connections she brought—her graphite mines, for instance—^would have been most usefiil, but it was still a mistake. It involved me in the ridiculous pursuit of that comical Scotsman Mackinnon—^well, you know all about that. Too late to do anything about it now, of course; the engagement is over. Wytham himself will suffer most, but it is his own fault. I wonder. . . . An idea occurs to me. Miss Lockhart. You may treat it as pure fancy, but there is more to it than that. Here it is: You are the sort of young woman I should marry. You are strong, brave, intelligent, and resourceful. Lady Marys beauty would fade. Yours is not as dazzling, but it is a beauty of mind and character, and it will grow stronger. You are a match for me. And I am a match for you. We have been fighting each other; we each know the others measure. May I ask you a question now? I

know you will answer it truthfully. Out of the enmity you once felt for me, has there come respect?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her eyes were held by his; she dared not move.

"We disagree on many things," he went on. "That is good. You have an independent mind. Perhaps you will change my opinion on some matters; perhaps I shall convince you of the merits of my viewpoint on others. One thing is certain: You would not be passive and decorative, which would have been Lady Marys limit. Even if she had been free to marry me, I do not think she would have been happy. You, Miss Lockhart, I judge to be a woman for whom happiness is secondary anyway. What you want most is activity and purpose. I can promise you that—all that you want. You understand what I am doing? I am proposing marriage to you—marriage, and more than marriage: partnership. Together, you and I, we would be magnificent—and who knows? In the rare intervals in all that vital work, when you have a moment to catch your breath, you may find yourself with a sensation that is hard to put a name to, until you remember that it is a by-product of work, called happiness. Miss Lockhart"—^he sat forward now and reached out to take her hands in his— "will you marry me?"

Sally felt dazed.

She had come here expecting to face anger, scorn, violence, and she was prepared for that; this left: her

I

breathless. She let her hands rest where they were. Her head was ringing. Now that they were actually touching, she felt the force of the man as never before. His personality was mesmerizing; his very flesh was electric with energy; his eyes held her transfixed; the flow of his words was irresistible. She had to struggle for the strength to speak, but then she found it and opened her mouth.

"I—** was all she had time to say, for there was an urgent knock at the door.

Bellmann let go of her hands and looked around. Yes? What is it?"

The servant opened the door, and there stood Alis-tair Mackinnon. Sally sank back in her chair, half fainting.

He was terrified, that was plain. He was dripping wet—it was obviously raining hard outside—and the hand that held his hat was shaking uncontrollably. He glanced from Sally to Bellmann and back to Sally again, and then fixed his tyts, wide with fear, on the financier.

"I have come for—for Miss Lockhart," he said faindy.

Bellmann didn't move.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Miss Lockhart," said Mackinnon, tearing his eyes away from Bellmann and addressing her directly, "Jim [Taylor and I have come to—to help you home. Jim is— he's hurt, you know. His leg is broken. He couldn't walk

in here; hes at the gate. We came because . . /' His eyes flashed back to Bellmann, and then to Sally again. "You can—come away now," he finished.

And she saw the courage that he'd had to summon up to enter the house of the man who'd been going to kill him, and found the strength to speak.

"Its too late, Mr. Mackinnon," she said. She forced j herself to sit up straight, as straight as Miss Susan Walsh j had done in her office, and with an effort that almost made her faint again she controlled her voice and said, "Mr. Bellmann has just asked me to marry him. I am on the point of deciding whether or not to accept his offer." i

She sensed Mackinnons incredulity. Keeping her \ eyes away from Bellmann, she went on:

"It depends on whether he can afford it. My hand in marriage will cost Mr. Bellmann three thousand two hundred and seventy pounds. That is the sum of money I tried to persuade him to give me some time ago. I had nothing to sell him then. But now that he has expressed an interest in marrying me, perhaps the situation has altered—I don't know."

Mackinnon was unable to speak. He seemed helpless in the electric charge that flowed between Sally and Bellmann. His ty^s moved back to Bellmann, and then he jumped, startled, as Bellmann laughed. 1

"Ha, ha, ha! I was right—^you are a match for md Of course you shall have it. In gold? Now?" he said.

She nodded, and Bellmann got to his feet, feeling on

his watch chain for a key. When he'd found it, he opened a small safe behind the desk and, as they watched, took out three small sealed bags, threw them on the desk, and tore the seal off another, tipping it upside down. A flood of glittering coins spilled out on the blotter. He swiftly counted out two hundred and seventy pounds' worth, returned them to the bag, and pushed all four bags toward Sally.

"Yours," he said. "To the penny."

She stood. The die was cast now; there was no going back. She gathered the bags of gold and handed them to Mackinnon. His hands were shaking more than hers.

"Please," she said, "do this for me. Take this money to Miss Susan Walsh, of number three, Benfleet Avenue, Croydon. Can you remember that?"

He repeated the name and address, and then said helplessly, "But Jim—he's made me come here. I cant—

"Hush," she said. "It's all over now. I'm going to marry Mr. Bellmann. Please go. Tell Jim . . . no, say nothing to Jim. Just go."

He looked like a lost child. With one last glance at Bellmann, he nodded faintly and left.

As the door closed behind him Sally sank down into the chair again, and in a moment Bellmann had surged forward to kneel at her side. It was like a dam breaking. He took her hands, and she felt as if all that power he had talked about, all those metamorphoses and alterations, had come to their final state in him: that he was

!

steam power, electric power, mechanical power, financial power made flesh. He kissed her hands again and again, and his kisses were somehow charged with the sulfurous crackle she'd heard from the wires beside the railway lines as she walked through the valley to the house.

But it was done now. It was nearly finished.

"I am tired," she said. "I want to sleep. But before I lie down, I'd like to see the Steam Gun. Can you take me there and show me what it's like? It would be a pity to come all this way and not see it."

"Of course," he said, and rose at once to ring the bell. "It is a good time to see it. I love the works at night. We are making great progress with electric lighting, you know. What do you know about gunnery, my dear?"

She stood up and gathered her heavy bag from the floor. It was quite easy now, as long as her voice kept steady, as long as she didn't tremble.

"As a matter of fact," she said, "I know a good deal. But I am always prepared to learn more."

He laughed happily as they walked to the front door.

The guard let Mackinnon out of the gate and locked it again behind him. Half running, half stumbling, clutching the bags of gold to his chest, Mackinnon made his way through the driving rain to the cab where Jim sat nursing the brandy flask, almost delirious with pain.

t

Jim couldn t take it in at first. Mackinnon had to go through it twice and then shake the bags so Jim could hear the coins jingHng.

"Marry him?" said Jim thickly. "She said that?"

"Aye! It was like a bargain—she was selling herself for this gold! And I had to promise to take it to a lady in Croydon—"