by A. J. Cronin
He stepped into a telephone booth and by consulting the directory discovered that the National Cyclists' Union had an office at 62 Leonard Street. In ten minutes he reached the building, passed under the sign of the gilded, winged wheel, and stood at the inquiry desk in the map-hung foyer.
The secretary, a middle-aged woman, received his inquiry
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without undue surprise, and taking a handbook from the counter, flipped the pages expertly. But her search was unproductive.
"We seem to have no present record of such a club. Was it affiliated?"
"I don't know," Paul confessed. "And it may now have been disbanded. But I do particularly want to trace it. Please help me. It's most important."
There was a pause.
"I haven't the time myself," she said. "But if it's important I might let you look over our back records. It should be listed there."
She showed him into a small annex beside the office and indicated a rack of yellow and green paper-backed books.
Left alone, Paul went through all the handbooks and annual reports for the past twenty years. This meticulous research occupied him a full three hours. There was no record whatsoever of the Grasshoppers' Club.
Discouraged, but undeterred, he reflected grimly, with all the logic he could command, if such a club had actually existed its members must undoubtedly have procured their machines from some local store. Abruptly, he left the N.C.U. and set out on a systematic tour of all the cycle agencies in the city.
But there, again and again, he was disappointed, meeting only blank negation, indifference, ridicule, and in certain instances, actual abuse. No one had ever heard of the organization he sought and some were inclined to suspect him of playing a stupid practical joke. He had begun by thinking in high excitement that if only he could find a member of this old cycling clique who was by this time a medical practitioner, his quest was ended. Now he told himself despondently that the whole thing must be a myth, a fantasy created by Burt's disordered and perverted imagination.
At four o'clock in the afternoon, tired and cast down, he had reached the outskirts of Eldon in search of the last address on the list of cycle agencies, which proved to be a small garage bearing the name Jed Stevens. It was little more than a petrol station with two hand pumps, but outside a shed in the yard he perceived a few second-hand bicycles laid out for sale or hire.
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Nothing could have seemed less promising; yet after a'momentary hesitation, almost automatically, he crossed over and approached a man in overalls who was hosing down the concrete pavement.
By this time the form of Paul's inquiry had become blunt, almost peremptory. But as he waited for an answer equally terse he was surprised to discover in the features of the garage proprietor a note of consideration. Without replying immediately he cut off the water at the nozzle, and looked at Paul reflectively.
"The Grasshoppers," he repeated to himself. "Come to think of it, I've heard my father speak of them."
"You have?"
"Yes. In Dad's time this was purely a cycle shop — it's since he died I've added the garage — and I believe he used to do repair jobs for a club of that name. Sturmey-Archer bicycles they used ... all painted green." ' "Then you must know who were the members."
"Not me." The proprietor smiled. "I was just a kid at the time."
"Surely your father kept some record . . . receipted bills . . . an address book . . . something."
"Not him. Cash over the handlebars was always his motto."
"But there must have been a list of members . . . printed minutes . . . reports of meetings. . . ."
"I very much doubt it. According to my impression, it was an informal sort of affair, made up of a group of young fellows more out for a lark than anything else, a bit of a craze you understand, and it didn't last long."
There was a pause. Raised to a peak of excitement only to be dashed down again, Paul fought off an onrush of bitterness and frustration.
"When you have time, I wish you'd look for any papers vour father might have left. And if you find anything at all bearing on the club, please let me know. I'll be most grateful."
In a controlled voice he gave his name and address; then accepting a trade card which the other offered him, with a word of thanks he turned on his heel and set off for the city.
And now, fatigued by useless effort, broken with disappointment, he lost his way, and found himself unexpectedly in Grove
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Quadrant, a residential district given over to stately houses. Vaguely, as he trudged along, he noted the names upon the entrance pillars. The Towers, Wortley Hall, Robin Hood Manor: they all had a grand and opulent sound. Suddenly, above a letter box fixed upon an imposing double gate, his eye was caught by a small brass plate which bore simply the owner's name. It was Sir Matthew Sprott.
Halted, transfixed by that name, Paul stared at the shining plaque, and at the garden, the mansion and fine domain beyond, his cheeks so pale they seemed drained of blood. This was the prosecutor's home — he had come now to identify Sprott in terms of that single word: prosecutor. And in finding himself, without warning, in such close proximity to it there rushed over him, in a flood tide, all that secret sense of accusation which, fostered by Swann, already had gathered and grown within his breast.
Here was a man of paramount intelligence, a legal expert, skilled to the highest degree in the technique of deduction and elucidation. How had it come about that he had ignored evidence of the first importance — the green bicycle, the skin purse, above all, the duration of the murdered woman's pregnancy? Was the omission deliberate? Could such a one wilfully ignore facts favourable to the accused and by concentrating solely upon prejudicial evidence, playing the part of devil's advocate, use all his power and personality to crush a feeble, incompetent opposition and secure a conviction which he knew to be false? Was that the law?
At the mere thought a chaos of emotion, of rage and rancour, rose chokingly in Paul's throat. He trembled to think that, from this very entrance, the prosecutor could suddenly appear, that he might meet him face to face. All at once he wanted to escape, but his limbs were leaden, he could not move and held on to the railings for support. But at last, with a great effort, he dragged himself away, and found refuge in a crowded street at the foot of the hill.
Back in his room he flung his coat on the bed and began, nervously, to pace up and down. At least he had proved that there was vital substance in Burt's story. But his inability to act upon it
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galled him beyond endurance. He wanted action, drastic and immediate. As the minutes passed his restlessness increased. Just as he felt he could endure it no longer, there came a knock upon the door. Hurriedly he threw it open. Lena Andersen stood before him. She wore her loose raincoat and was hatless. The keen night air, or perhaps her rapid passage through the streets, had brushed back her blond hair from her forehead and brought a fine blood into her cheeks. Poised uncertainly upon the threshold, her eyes were wide and startled, her brows marred by a concern she seemed unable to conceal.
"Paul . . . I'm sorry to disturb you ... I had to come. This afternoon at the store . . . someone called to see you."
"Yes?" he questioned, in a strained voice. At the sight of her, so unexpected, his gaze instinctively had brightened. But, immediately, insidious as poison, came the recollection of all that Harris had told him. He could not bear to think of her in this new, discreditable light. He had an unwelcome feeling that in her affected simplicity she had sought to make a dupe of him. Unconsciously, his manner chilled, became harder, as he said: "Will you come in?"
"No. I have to get back at once." She spoke impulsively. "It was so unfair of Mr. Harris this morning."
"I daresay he had his reasons."
She watched him, still agitated. Above the buttoned collar of her raincoat he could see the pulse beating in her white throat.
"Have you found anoth
er job?"
"I haven't tried."
"But what will you do?"
Her unguarded anxiety wrung his tortured spirit. But he shrugged.
"Don't worry. I'll get along all right. Who was it wanted to see me? Someone from the police?"
"No, no," she said quickly, with a tremulous lip. "It was a queer little man. Mr. Harris was very rude to him, wouldn't take a message, or give him any information. But afterwards I managed to get a word with him. He's a Mr. Prusty, of 52 Ushaw Terrace. He wants you to call and see him tonight."
'Tonight?"
o
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"Yes. No matter how late. He said it was terribly important."
"Thank you," Paul said quietly. "You've done me a real good turn."
"It's nothing. ... I don't want to interfere . . . but if there's any way I can help. . . ."
Her sympathy, restrained yet spontaneous, swept him with an overwhelming desire to confide in her. But again he would not yield to it. Instead, he forced a conventional smile — a weak grimace that twitched his cheek.
"Haven't you enough troubles of your own?"
She glanced at him strangely, inquiringly almost, her chin pressed down upon her breast.
"If I have, won't I understand yours better?"
She waited, almost anxiously, waited for his reply. As he kept silent she compressed her lips, as though to suppress a sigh.
"At least . . . take care of yourself."
For an instant her eyes held his; then with a swift movement, she turned and was gone.
Immediately a coldness filled him, a sense of deprivation mingled with anger at his own weakness in wishing her to remain. He was tempted almost to rush to the landing and recall her. But the striking of the hour on the Ware clock deterred him. He counted: nine strokes; and at once took up his hat and coat. As he went downstairs he asked himself why should Prusty wish to see him? This sudden overture ran quite contrary to the tobacconist's cautious disposition. With knitted brows, trying to find an answer to the puzzle, he set out for Eldon at a rapid pace.
CHAPTER XXII
THE weather had changed at last and the night was cold and wintry. Beneath a leaden sky the streets lay quiet and deserted, the city seemed sealed in a frozen stillness. Presently it began to snow. The dry flakes milled around in the air, then fell, spent
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and soft, upon the pavements. With muffled footsteps Paul passed the shuttered cigar store and pushed on towards Ushaw Terrace.
The tobacconist was at home, wrapped in a thick woolen comforter. He peered at Paul across the threshold, then, with a wheeze of recognition, widened the narrow aperture of the door. Paul entered, having first kicked the snow from his boots upon the stairs. The parlour was still as dim and dusty as before, still redolent of cigar smoke, and still the gas fire sent its glow across the sheepskin rug. It was close and stuffy after the outer chill.
"Winter's come early," Prusty said, darting sharp glances over his pince-nez. "I feel it in my tubes. Sit down. I'm going to have supper."
He poured out a cup of his indispensable coffee for his visitor and gruffly insisted on sharing with him a meat pie, bought from the baker's and made hot in the oven. Despite this hospitality Paul had a strong suspicion that he was less welcome than before. The tobacconist kept examining him with surreptitious glances, and by a series of questions, roundabout, yet all bearing shrewdly towards the point, he managed to acquaint himself pretty fully with Paul's doings in the past few weeks.
When he had done so he made no immediate comment, but his air was sombre as he selected and lit a cheroot, coughed spasmodically, then bent his bushy brows upon the fire.
"So that's it." He meditated frowningly. "No wonder I felt the whole thing was waking up again. For all these years it's been buried . . . now it's like as if, when you put your ear to the ground, you heard a faint stirring in the grave."
There was a silence. The parlour, darkened by the falling snow, seemed suddenly full of shadows.
"As yet it's all under cover," Prusty went on steadily. "But there's signs and symptoms ... ay, there's omens and portents . . . for better or worse I cannot say, but I feel it in my bones, there's a resurrection coming. I feel it even in this room." He cast his eyes upwards. "And in the room above."
At the note of strange foreboding in Prusty's voice, Paul suppressed a shiver, and stared up at the ceiling.
"Is it still unoccupied?"
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The tobacconist nodded his head. "Blank empty. As I told you, since the murder it's never been occupied for long."
Paul stirred uneasily, preyed on by disturbing thoughts, by the urgent need to press forward at all costs.
"There's something on your mind. Is what I've been doing responsible?"
"Ay, it's got around," Prusty agreed. "In whispers and in echoes. And it's penetrated to some queer places. That's the reason I asked you to visit me."
Interlocking his fingers tightly to restrain another tremor, Paul leaned forward in his chair to listen.
"Last Friday a man called to see me, here, at this flat. I was out, at my business, but Mrs. Lawson, the woman who comes in twice a week to clean up for me, was in. She's a plain, sensible woman who doesn't scare easy. But by all accounts the very sight of tins man frightened her near out of her wits." Prusty glanced towards Paul. "Do you want me to go on?"
"Yes."
"The man was of no particular age. He might have been young and he might have been old. He looked strong yet he looked sick. His clothes didn't fit him. His face was hard and dead white. His head was cropped, down to the bone. Mrs. Lawson took her oath he was a convict."
"Who could it be?" Paul's lips were dry.
"God knows ... I don't. But Til lay you odds he came from Stoneheath. He left no name. What he did leave, before he bolted, was a message."
With grave, deliberate movements Prusty took from his waistcoat pocket a tiny paper spill which he unrolled and handed over. Showing faintly brown on the yellowish tissue slip were some minute words. Paul read them again, and again.
For God's sake don't let them throw you off. Find Charles Castle in the Lanes. He'll tell you what to do.
What did it mean? Who had written this desperate message? By whom had that despairing cry been uttered? Paul sat upright in his chair, petrified by a wild conjecture. It could not be! And yet,
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by some undreamed-of chance, it might be true. What if this scrap of paper had come from his father's hands — conveyed through secret and underground channels, delivered furtively, by a fellow prisoner who had been released?
An electric thrill traversed Paul's spine. In this terrible appeal he saw a new inspiration, a command, urging him onwards. With a convulsion of his breast, he rolled the paper up, and questioned Prusty.
"Can I keep this?"
The tobacconist, disclaiming responsibility, made a resigned gesture.
"I'll be glad to be rid of it. I didn't bargain to be mixed up in that kind of business."
The room was now almost dark. The gas fire cast no more than a ruddy glow upon the hearth. Outside, the darkness had intensified, and the snow was piled thickly against the window panes. Immersed in his reflections, throbbing with fresh hope, Paul sat motionless.
Suddenly, and without warning, there came the sound of a footstep upon the floor above.
Paul stiffened, and for a moment thought he must surely be mistaken. But no, the footstep was repeated, again, yet again, with a hollow, a mournful regularity. Impinging like this, upon the present current of his thoughts, this strange manifestation took on a dire significance. He sat up, his hair bristling, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling overhead. Prusty also had drawn himself erect, and was staring upwards with equal consternation.
"You said the flat was empty," Paul whispered.
"I swear it is," Prusty answered.
With unusual agility Prusty sprang from his seat, rushed throu
gh the lobby and out of the flat. At the same time there came the slam of the door above, succeeded by footsteps descending the stairs. Paul's impulse had been to follow Prusty but now an exclamation, as of relief, from the outside landing, arrested him, half way to the hall. He stood listening, his nerves vibrating, his ears strained towards the dimness beyond. He heard first a word of greeting in an unknown voice, then Prusty's voice, now pitched
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in a normal key. Then came some quiet conversation and finally, from each, a friendly "goodnight."
A minute later Prusty returned, wiping his forehead. He shut the door, lit the gas chandelier, then turned to Paul with a slightly sheepish air.
"It was our landlord," he explained. "The top root is leaking . . . some slates blown off. He was up to see about it." Prusty drew his comforter tighter around his shoulders. "Sitting in the dark makes a man fancy things. I let my imagination run away with me."
Paul stirred slowly.
"You didn't imagine that scrap of paper."
"No," said Prusty. "And when I heard that noise, and found myself dashing upstairs . . . my God, it felt as real as it did fifteen years ago. Ah, well! Won't you have a drop more coffee?"
Paul, however, declined. He could not sit still. These faded words on the scrap of paper were burning into his skin, through the lining of his pocket, like molten metal. No longer did he concern himself with the green bicycle and the leather purse, which only a few hours ago had seemed so vital to the case. This latest clue had driven all else from his mind.
As he hurried back to Poole Street his thoughts were feverish and confused. Were his own actions in any way responsible for this heart-breaking message? Or had Birlev's abortive effort sent faint whisperings filtering mysteriously to the fastness of the prison? Paul heaved a short, sharp sigh — this suspense was more than he could bear. But now at least he had a direct and powerful lead — he would follow it to the end.
