The Thirty-Nine Steps (16 page)

I asked for Mr Appleton, and was ushered in. My plan had been to walk straight into
the dining-room, and by a sudden appearance wake in the men that start of recognition
which would confirm my theory. But when I found myself in that neat hall the place
mastered me. There were the golf-clubs and tennis-rackets, the straw hats and caps,
the rows of gloves, the sheaf of walking-sticks, which you will find in ten thousand
British homes. A stack of neatly folded coats and waterproofs covered the top of an
old oak chest; there was a grandfather clock ticking; and some polished brass warming-pans
on the walls, and a barometer, and a print of Chiltern winning the St Leger. The place
was as orthodox as an Anglican church. When the maid asked me for my name I gave it
automatically, and was shown into the smoking-room, on the right side of the hall.

That room was even worse. I hadn’t time to examine it, but I could see some framed
group photographs above the mantelpiece, and I could have sworn they were English
public school or college. I had only one glance, for I managed to pull myself together
and go after the maid. But I was too late. She had already entered the dining-room
and given my name to her master, and I had missed the chance of seeing how the three
took it.

When I walked into the room the old man at the head of the table had risen and turned
round to meet me. He was in evening dress—a short coat and black tie, as was the other,
whom I called in my own mind the plump one. The third, the dark fellow, wore a blue
serge suit and a soft white collar, and the colours of some club or school.

The old man’s manner was perfect. ‘Mr Hannay?’ he said hesitatingly. ‘Did you wish
to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I’ll rejoin you. We had better go to the smoking-room.’

Though I hadn’t an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself to play the game. I
pulled up a chair and sat down on it.

‘I think we have met before,’ I said, ‘and I guess you know my business.’

The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their faces, they played
the part of mystification very well.

‘Maybe, maybe,’ said the old man. ‘I haven’t a very good memory, but I’m afraid you
must tell me your errand, Sir, for I really don’t know it.’

‘Well, then,’ I said, and all the time I seemed to myself to be talking pure foolishness—‘I
have come to tell you that the game’s up. I have a warrant for the arrest of you three
gentlemen.’

‘Arrest,’ said the old man, and he looked really shocked. ‘Arrest! Good God, what
for?’

‘For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day of last month.’

‘I never heard the name before,’ said the old man in a dazed voice.

One of the others spoke up. ‘That was the Portland Place murder. I read about it.
Good heavens, you must be mad, Sir! Where do you come from?’

‘Scotland Yard,’ I said.

After that for a minute there was utter silence. The old man was staring at his plate
and fumbling with a nut, the very model of innocent bewilderment.

Then the plump one spoke up. He stammered a little, like a man picking his words.

‘Don’t get flustered, uncle,’ he said. ‘It is all a ridiculous mistake; but these
things happen sometimes, and we can easily set it right. It won’t be hard to prove
our innocence. I can show that I was out of the country on the 23rd of May, and Bob
was in a nursing home. You were in London, but you can explain what you were doing.’

‘Right, Percy! Of course that’s easy enough. The 23rd! That was the day after Agatha’s
wedding. Let me see. What was I doing? I came up in the morning from Woking, and lunched
at the club with Charlie Symons. Then—oh yes, I dined with the Fishmongers. I remember,
for the punch didn’t agree with me, and I was seedy next morning. Hang it all, there’s
the cigar-box I brought back from the dinner.’ He pointed to an object on the table,
and laughed nervously.

‘I think, Sir,’ said the young man, addressing me respectfully, ‘you will see you
are mistaken. We want to assist the law like all Englishmen, and we don’t want Scotland
Yard to be making fools of themselves. That’s so, uncle?’

‘Certainly, Bob.’ The old fellow seemed to be recovering his voice. ‘Certainly, we’ll
do anything in our power to assist the authorities. But—but this is a bit too much.
I can’t get over it.’

‘How Nellie will chuckle,’ said the plump man. ‘She always said that you would die
of boredom because nothing ever happened to you. And now you’ve got it thick and strong,’
and he began to laugh very pleasantly.

‘By Jove, yes. Just think of it! What a story to tell at the club. Really, Mr Hannay,
I suppose I should be angry, to show my innocence, but it’s too funny! I almost forgive
you the fright you gave me! You looked so glum, I thought I might have been walking
in my sleep and killing people.’

It couldn’t be acting, it was too confoundedly genuine. My heart went into my boots,
and my first impulse was to apologize and clear out. But I told myself I must see
it through, even though I was to be the laughing-stock of Britain. The light from
the dinner-table candlesticks was not very good, and to cover my confusion I got up,
walked to the door and switched on the electric light. The sudden glare made them
blink, and I stood scanning the three faces.

Well, I made nothing of it. One was old and bald, one was stout, one was dark and
thin. There was nothing in their appearance to prevent them being the three who had
hunted me in Scotland, but there was nothing to identify them. I simply can’t explain
why I who, as a roadman, had looked into two pairs of eyes, and as Ned Ainslie into
another pair, why I, who have a good memory and reasonable powers of observation,
could find no satisfaction. They seemed exactly what they professed to be, and I could
not have sworn to one of them.

There in that pleasant dining-room, with etchings on the walls, and a picture of an
old lady in a bib above the mantelpiece, I could see nothing to connect them with
the moorland desperadoes. There was a silver cigarette-box beside me, and I saw that
it had been won by Percival Appleton, Esq., of the St Bede’s Club, in a golf tournament.
I had to keep a firm hold of Peter Pienaar to prevent myself bolting out of that house.

‘Well,’ said the old man politely, ‘are you reassured by your scrutiny, Sir?’

I couldn’t find a word.

‘I hope you’ll find it consistent with your duty to drop this ridiculous business.
I make no complaint, but you’ll see how annoying it must be to respectable people.’

I shook my head.

‘O Lord,’ said the young man. ‘This is a bit too thick!’

‘Do you propose to march us off to the police station?’ asked the plump one. ‘That
might be the best way out of it, but I suppose you won’t be content with the local
branch. I have the right to ask to see your warrant, but I don’t wish to cast any
aspersions upon you. You are only doing your duty. But you’ll admit it’s horribly
awkward. What do you propose to do?’

There was nothing to do except to call in my men and have them arrested, or to confess
my blunder and clear out. I felt mesmerized by the whole place, by the air of obvious
innocence—not innocence merely, but frank honest bewilderment and concern in the three
faces.

‘Oh, Peter Pienaar,’ I groaned inwardly, and for a moment I was very near damning
myself for a fool and asking their pardon.

‘Meantime I vote we have a game of bridge,’ said the plump one. ‘It will give Mr Hannay
time to think over things, and you know we have been wanting a fourth player. Do you
play, Sir?’

I accepted as if it had been an ordinary invitation at the club. The whole business
had mesmerized me. We went into the smoking-room where a card-table was set out, and
I was offered things to smoke and drink. I took my place at the table in a kind of
dream. The window was open and the moon was flooding the cliffs and sea with a great
tide of yellow light. There was moonshine, too, in my head. The three had recovered
their composure, and were talking easily—just the kind of slangy talk you will hear
in any golf club-house. I must have cut a rum figure, sitting there knitting my brows
with my eyes wandering.

My partner was the young dark one. I play a fair hand at bridge, but I must have been
rank bad that night. They saw that they had got me puzzled, and that put them more
than ever at their ease. I kept looking at their faces, but they conveyed nothing
to me. It was not that they looked different; they were different. I clung desperately
to the words of Peter Pienaar.

Then something awoke me.

The old man laid down his hand to light a cigar. He didn’t pick it up at once, but
sat back for a moment in his chair, with his fingers tapping on his knees.

It was the movement I remembered when I had stood before him in the moorland farm,
with the pistols of his servants behind me.

A little thing, lasting only a second, and the odds were a thousand to one that I
might have had my eyes on my cards at the time and missed it. But I didn’t, and, in
a flash, the air seemed to clear. Some shadow lifted from my brain, and I was looking
at the three men with full and absolute recognition.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten o’clock.

The three faces seemed to change before my eyes and reveal their secrets. The young
one was the murderer. Now I saw cruelty and ruthlessness, where before I had only
seen good-humour. His knife, I made certain, had skewered Scudder to the floor. His
kind had put the bullet in Karolides.

The plump man’s features seemed to dislimn, and form again, as I looked at them. He
hadn’t a face, only a hundred masks that he could assume when he pleased. That chap
must have been a superb actor. Perhaps he had been Lord Alloa of the night before;
perhaps not; it didn’t matter. I wondered if he was the fellow who had first tracked
Scudder, and left his card on him. Scudder had said he lisped, and I could imagine
how the adoption of a lisp might add terror.

But the old man was the pick of the lot. He was sheer brain, icy, cool, calculating,
as ruthless as a steam hammer. Now that my eyes were opened I wondered where I had
seen the benevolence. His jaw was like chilled steel, and his eyes had the inhuman
luminosity of a bird’s. I went on playing, and every second a greater hate welled
up in my heart. It almost choked me, and I couldn’t answer when my partner spoke.
Only a little longer could I endure their company.

‘Whew! Bob! Look at the time,’ said the old man. ‘You’d better think about catching
your train. Bob’s got to go to town tonight,’ he added, turning to me. The voice rang
now as false as hell. I looked at the clock, and it was nearly half-past ten.

‘I am afraid he must put off his journey,’ I said.

‘Oh, damn,’ said the young man. ‘I thought you had dropped that rot. I’ve simply got
to go. You can have my address, and I’ll give any security you like.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘you must stay.’

At that I think they must have realized that the game was desperate. Their only chance
had been to convince me that I was playing the fool, and that had failed. But the
old man spoke again.

‘I’ll go bail for my nephew. That ought to content you, Mr Hannay.’ Was it fancy,
or did I detect some halt in the smoothness of that voice?

There must have been, for as I glanced at him, his eyelids fell in that hawk-like
hood which fear had stamped on my memory.

I blew my whistle.

In an instant the lights were out. A pair of strong arms gripped me round the waist,
covering the pockets in which a man might be expected to carry a pistol.

‘
Schnell, Franz
,’ cried a voice, ‘
Das Boot, Das Boot
!’ As it spoke I saw two of my fellows emerge on the moonlit lawn.

The young dark man leapt for the window, was through it, and over the low fence before
a hand could touch him. I grappled the old chap, and the room seemed to fill with
figures. I saw the plump one collared, but my eyes were all for the out-of-doors,
where Franz sped on over the road towards the railed entrance to the beach stairs.
One man followed him, but he had no chance. The gate of the stairs locked behind the
fugitive, and I stood staring, with my hands on the old boy’s throat, for such a time
as a man might take to descend those steps to the sea.

Suddenly my prisoner broke from me and flung himself on the wall. There was a click
as if a lever had been pulled. Then came a low rumbling far, far below the ground,
and through the window I saw a cloud of chalky dust pouring out of the shaft of the
stairway.

Someone switched on the light.

The old man was looking at me with blazing eyes.

‘He is safe,’ he cried. ‘You cannot follow in time … He is gone … He has triumphed
…
Der Schwarzestein ist in der siegeskrone
.’

There was more in those eyes than any common triumph. They had been hooded like a
bird of prey, and now they flamed with a hawk’s pride. A white fanatic heat burned
in them, and I realized for the first time the terrible thing I had been up against.
This man was more than a spy; in his foul way he had been a patriot.

As the handcuffs clinked on his wrists I said my last word to him.