The Complete Richard Hannay

by John Buchan

  We raced back to Peter Bojer’s and after a hasty breakfast started off for Hauge. I settled with Gaudian that he was to report any developments to me by cable, and I was to do the same to him. When the day of release was fixed, he was to go boldly up to Snaasen and deal with the doctor as he liked, making sure that he could not communicate with Medina for a day or two. A motor-launch would be waiting at Merdal to take the two to Stavanger, for I wanted him to see Mercot on board the English steamer. I arranged, too, that he should be supplied with adequate funds, for Mercot had not a penny.

  We pushed off at once, for I had to be at Flacksholm in good time, and as the morning advanced I did not feel so sure of the weather. What wind we had had these last days had been mild breezes from the west, but now it seemed to be shifting more to the north, and increasing in vehemence. Down in that deep-cut fjord it was calm enough, but up on the crest of the tableland on the northern shore I could see that it was blowing hard, for my glass showed me little tourmentes of snow. Also it had suddenly got much colder. I made Johan force the pace, and early in the afternoon we were out of the shelter of the rock walls in the inlet into which the fjord broadened. Here it was blowing fairly hard, and there was a stiff sea running. Flying squalls of rain beat down on us from the north, and for five minutes or so would shut out the view. It was a regular gusty April day, such as you find in spring salmon-fishing in Scotland, and had my job been merely to catch the boat to Stavanger I should not have minded it at all. But there was no time for the boat, for in little more than twenty-four hours I had to meet Medina. I wondered if Archie Roylance had turned up. I wondered still more how an aeroplane was to make the return journey over these stormy leagues of sea.

  Presently the low green lines of Flacksholm showed through the spray, and when Johan began to shape his course to the south-west for Stavanger, I bade him go straight forward and land me on the island. I told him I had a friend who was camping there, and that we were to be picked up in a day or two by an English yacht. Johan obviously thought me mad, but he did as he was told. ‘There will be no one on the island yet,’ he said. ‘The farmer from Rosmaer does not come till June, when the hay-making begins. The winter pasture is poor and sour.’ That was all to the good, for I did not want any spectator of our madness.

  As we drew nearer I could see no sign of life on the low shore, except an infinity of eider-ducks, and a fine osprey which sat on a pointed rock like a heraldic griffin. I was watching the bird, for I had only seen an osprey twice before, when Johan steered me into a creek, where there was deep water alongside a flat reef. This, he told me, was the ordinary landing-place from the mainland. I flung my suit-case and rucksack on shore, said good-bye to Johan and tipped him well, and watched the little boat ploughing south till it was hidden by a squall. Then, feeling every kind of a fool, I seized my baggage and proceeded, like Robinson Crusoe, into the interior.

  It was raining steadily, a fine thin rain, and every now and then a squall would burst on me and ruffle the sea. Jolly weather for flying, I reflected, especially for flying over some hundreds of miles of ocean!… I found the farm, a few rough wooden buildings and a thing like a stone cattle-pen, but there was no sign of human life there. Then I got out my map, and concluded that I had better make for the centre of the island, where there seemed to be some flat ground at one end of the loch. I was feeling utterly depressed, walking like a bagman with my kit in my hand in an uninhabited Norwegian isle, and due in London the next evening. London seemed about as inaccessible in the time as the moon.

  When I got to the rim of the central hollow there was a brief clearing of the weather, and I looked down on a little grey tarn, set in very green meadows. In the meadows at the north end I saw to my joy what looked like an aeroplane picketed down, and a thing like a small tent near it. Also I could see smoke curling up from a group of boulders adjoining. The gallant Archie had arrived, and my spirits lightened. I made good going down the hill, and, as I shouted, a figure like an Arctic explorer crawled out of the tent.

  ‘Hullo, Dick,’ it cried. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Plenty,’ I said. ‘And you?’

  ‘Famous. Got here last night after a clinkin’ journey with the bus behavin’ like a lamb. Had an interestin’ evenin’ with the birds – Lord! such a happy huntin’-ground for ’em. I’ve been doin’ sentry-go on the tops all mornin’ lookin’ for you, but the weather got dirty, so I returned to the wigwam. Lunch is nearly ready.’

  ‘What about the weather?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Pas si bête,’ he said, sniffing. ‘The wind is pretty sure to go down at sunset. D’you mind a night journey?’

  Archie’s imperturbable good humour cheered me enormously. I must say he was a born campaigner, for he had made himself very snug, and gave me as good a meal as I have ever eaten – a hot stew of tinned stuff and curry, a plum-pudding, and an assortment of what he called ‘delicatessen’. To keep out the cold we drank Benedictine in horn mugs. He could talk about nothing but his blessed birds, and announced that he meant to come back to Flacksholm and camp for a week. He had seen a special variety – some kind of phalarope – that fairly ravished his heart. When I asked questions about the journey ahead of us, he scarcely deigned to answer, so busy he was with speculation on the feathered fauna of Norway.

  ‘Archie,’ I said, ‘are you sure you can get me across the North Sea?’

  ‘I won’t say “sure”. There’s always a lottery in this game, but with any luck we ought to manage it. The wind will die down, and besides it’s a ground wind, and may be quiet enough a few hundred feet up. We’ll have to shape a compass course anyhow, so that darkness won’t worry us.’

  ‘What about the machine?’ I asked. I don’t know why, but I felt horribly nervous.

  ‘A beauty. But of course you never know. If we were driven much out of a straight course, our petrol might run short.’

  ‘What would that mean?’

  ‘Forced landin’.’

  ‘But supposing we hadn’t reached land?’

  ‘Oh, then we’d be for it,’ said Archie cheerfully. He added, as if to console me: ‘We might be picked up by a passin’ steamer or a fishin’ smack. I’ve known fellows that had that luck.’

  ‘What are the chances of our getting over safely?’

  ‘Evens. Never better or worse than evens in this flyin’ business. But it will be all right. Dash it all, a woodcock makes the trip constantly in one flight.’

  After that I asked no more questions, for I knew I could not get him past the woodcock. I was not feeling happy, but Archie’s calm put me to shame. We had a very good tea, and then, sure enough, the wind began to die down, and the clouds opened to show clear sky. It grew perishing cold, and I was glad of every stitch of clothing, and envied Archie his heavy skin coat. We were all ready about nine, and in a dead calm cast loose, taxied over a stretch of turf, rose above the loch so as to clear the hill, and turned our faces to the west, which was like a shell of gold closing down upon the molten gold of the sea.

  Luck was with us that night, and all my qualms were belied. Apart from the cold, which was savage, I enjoyed every moment of the trip, till in the early dawn we saw a crawling black line beneath us which was the coast of Aberdeen. We filled up with petrol at a place in Kincardine, and had an enormous breakfast at the local hotel. Everything went smoothly and it was still early in the day when I found we were crossing the Cheviots. We landed at York about noon, and, while Archie caught the London train, I got my car from the garage and started for Oxford. But first I wired to Mary asking her to wire to Medina in my name that I would reach London by the seven-fifteen. I had a pleasant run south, left the car at Oxford, and duly emerged on the platform at Paddington to find Medina waiting for me.

  His manner was almost tender.

  ‘My dear fellow, I do hope you are better?’

  ‘Perfectly fit again, thank you. Ready for anything.’

  ‘You look more sunburnt than when you left town.’

&n
bsp; ‘It’s the wonderful weather we’ve had. I’ve been lying basking on the veranda.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I Visit the Fields of Eden

  There was a change in Medina. I noticed it the following day when I lunched with him, and very particularly at the next dinner of the Thursday Club to which I went as his guest. It was a small change, which nobody else would have remarked, but to me, who was watching him like a lynx, it was clear enough. His ease of manner towards the world was a little less perfect, and when we were alone he was more silent than before. I did not think that he had begun to suspect any danger to his plans, but the day for their consummation was approaching, and even his cold assurance may have been flawed by little quivers of nervousness. As I saw it, once the big liquidation took place and he realized the assets which were to be the foundation of his main career, it mattered little what became of the hostages. He might let them go; they would wander back to their old world unable to give any account of their absence, and, if the story got out, there would be articles in the medical journals about these unprecedented cases of lost memory. So far I was certain that they had taken no lasting harm. But if the liquidation failed, God knew what their fate would be. They would never be seen again, for if his possession of them failed to avert disaster to his plans, he would play for safety, and, above all, for revenge. Revenge to a mind like his would be a consuming passion.

  The fact that I had solved one conundrum and laid my hand on one of the hostages put me in a perfect fever of restlessness. Our time was very short, and there were still two poor souls hidden in his black underworld. It was the little boy I thought most of, and perhaps my preoccupation with him made me stupid about other things. My thoughts were always on the Blind Spinner, and there I could not advance one single inch. Macgillivray’s watchers had nothing to report. It was no use my paying another visit to Madame Breda, and going through the same rigmarole. I could only stick to Medina and pray for luck. I had resolved that if he asked me again to take up my quarters with him in Hill Street I would accept, though it might be hideously awkward in a score of ways.

  I longed for Sandy, but no word came from him, and I had his strict injunctions not to try to reach him. The only friend I saw in those early days of May was Archie Roylance who seemed to have forgotten his Scotch greenshanks and settled down in London for the season. He started playing polo, which was not a safe game for a man with a crocked leg, and he opened his house in Grosvenor Street and roosted in a corner of it. He knew I was busy in a big game, and he was mad to be given a share in it, but I had to be very careful with Archie. He was the best fellow alive, but discretion had never been his strong point. So I refused to tell him anything at present, and I warned Turpin, who was an ancient friend of his, to do the same. The three of us dined together one night, and poor old Turpin was rallied by Archie on his glumness.

  ‘You’re a doleful bird, you know,’ he told him. ‘I heard somewhere you were goin’ to be married and I expect that’s the cause. What do you call it – ranger yourself? Cheer up, my son. It can’t be as bad as it sounds. Look at Dick there.’

  I switched him on to other subjects, and we got his opinion on the modern stage. Archie had been doing a course of plays and had very strong views on the drama. Something had got to happen, he said, or he fell asleep in the first act, and something very rarely happened, so he was left to slumber peacefully till he was awakened and turned out by the attendants. He liked plays with shooting in them, and knockabout farce – anything indeed with a noise in it. But he had struck a vein of serious drama which he had found soporific. One piece in especial, which showed the difficulties of a lady of fifty who fell in love with her stepson, he seriously reprobated.

  ‘Rotten,’ he complained. ‘What did it matter to anyone what the old cat did? But I assure you, everybody round me was gloatin’ over it. A fellow said to me it was a masterpiece of tragic irony. What’s irony, Dick? I thought it was the tone your commandin’ officer adopted, when you had made an ass of yourself, and he showed it by complimentin’ you on your intelligence… Oh, by the way, you remember the girl in green we saw at that dancin’ place? Well, I saw her at the show – at least I’m pretty sure it was her – in a box with the black-bearded fellow. She didn’t seem to be takin’ much of it in. Wonder who she is and what she was doin’ there? Russian, d’you think? I believe the silly play was translated from the Russian. I want to see that girl dance again.’

  The next week was absolutely blank, except for my own perpetual worrying. Medina kept me close to him, and I had to relinquish any idea of going down to Fosse for an occasional night. I longed badly for the place and for a sight of Peter John, and Mary’s letters didn’t comfort me, for they were getting scrappier and scrappier. My hope was that Medina would act on Kharáma’s advice, and in order to establish his power over his victims bring them into the open and exercise it in the environment to which they had been accustomed. That wouldn’t help me with the little boy, but it might give me a line on Miss Victor. I rather hoped that at some ball I would see him insisting on some strange woman dancing with him, or telling her to go home, or something, and then I would have cause to suspect. But no such luck. He never spoke to a woman in my presence who wasn’t somebody perfectly well known. I began to think that he had rejected the Indian’s advice as too dangerous.

  Kharáma, more by token, was back in town, and Medina took me to see him again. The fellow had left Claridge’s and was living in a little house in Eaton Place, and away from the glitter of a big hotel he looked even more sinister and damnable. We went there one evening after dinner, and found him squatting on the usual couch in a room lit by one lamp and fairly stinking with odd scents. He seemed to have shed his occidental dress, for he wore flowing robes, and I could see his beastly bare feet under the skirts of them, when he moved to rearrange a curtain.

  They took no more notice of me than if I had been a grandfather’s clock, and to my disgust they conducted the whole conversation in some Eastern tongue. I gathered nothing from it, except a deduction as to Medina’s state of mind. There was an unmistakable hint of nervousness in his voice. He seemed to be asking urgent questions, and the Indian was replying calmly and soothingly. By and by Medina’s voice became quieter, and suddenly I realized that the two were speaking of me. Kharáma’s heavy eyes were raised for a second in my direction, and Medina turned ever so little towards me. The Indian asked some question about me, and Medina replied carelessly with a shrug of his shoulders and a slight laugh. The laugh rasped my temper. He was evidently saying that I was packed up and sealed and safe on the shelf.

  That visit didn’t make me feel happier, and next day, when I had a holiday from Medina’s company, I had nothing better to do than to wander about London and think dismal thoughts. Yet, as luck would have it, that aimless walk had its consequences. It was a Sunday, and on the edge of Battersea Park I encountered a forlorn little company of Salvationists conducting a service in the rain. I stopped to listen – I always do – for I am the eternal average man who is bound to halt at every street show, whether it be a motor accident or a Punch and Judy. I listened to the tail-end of an address from a fat man who looked like a reformed publican, and a few words from an earnest lady in spectacles. Then they sang a hymn to a trombone accompaniment, and lo and behold, it was my old friend, which I had last whistled in Tom Greenslade’s bedroom at Fosse. ‘There is rest for the weary’, they sang:

  On the other side of Jordan,

  In the green fields of Eden,

  Where the Tree of Life is blooming,

  There is rest for you.

  I joined heartily in the singing, and contributed two halfcrowns to the collecting box, for somehow the thing seemed to be a good omen.

  I had been rather neglecting that item in the puzzle, and that evening and during the night I kept turning it over till my brain was nearly addled.

  Where the sower casts his seed in

  Furrows of the fields of Eden.

&
nbsp; That was the version in the rhyme, and in Tom Greenslade’s recollection the equivalent was a curiosity shop in North London kept by a Jew with a dyed beard. Surely the two must correspond, though I couldn’t just see how. The other two items had panned out so well that it was reasonable to suppose that the third might do the same. I could see no light, and I finally dropped off to sleep with that blessed ‘fields of Eden’ twittering about my head.

  I awoke with the same obsession, but other phrases had added themselves to it. One was the ‘playing-fields of Eton’, about which some fellow had said something, and for a moment I wondered if I hadn’t got hold of the right trail. Eton was a school for which Peter John’s name was down, and therefore it had to do with boys, and might have to do with David Warcliff. But after breakfast I gave up that line, for it led nowhere. The word was ‘Eden’, to rhyme with ‘seed in’. There were other fields haunting me – names like Tothill Fields and Bunhill Fields. These were places in London, and that was what I wanted. The Directory showed no name like that of ‘Fields of Eden’, but was it not possible that there had once in old days been a place called by that odd title?

  I spent the morning in the Club Library, which was a very good one, reading up Old London. I read all about Vauxhall Gardens and Ranelagh and Cremorne, and a dozen other ancient haunts of pleasure, but I found nothing to my purpose. Then I remembered that Bullivant – Lord Artinswell – had had for one of his hobbies the study of bygone London, so I telephoned to him and invited myself to lunch.

  He was very pleased to see me, and it somehow comforted me to find myself again in the house in Queen Anne’s Gate where I had spent some of the most critical moments of my life.

  ‘You’ve taken on the work I wrote to you about,’ he said. ‘I knew you would. How are you getting on?’

  ‘So-so. It’s a big job and there’s very little time. I want to ask you a question. You’re an authority on Old London. Tell me, did you ever come across in your researches the name of the “Fields of Eden”?’