by John Buchan
‘Finish your story,’ I begged him. ‘I want to know what you have been doing abroad?’
‘I continued my studies in the Bibliothèque Nationale, and I found that, as I suspected, Medina, or somebody like him, had got on to the Michael Scott MS. and had had a transcript made of it. I pushed my researches further, for Michael wasn’t the only pebble on the beach, though he was the biggest. Lord, Dick, it’s a queer business in a problem like ours to have to dig for help in the debris of the Middle Ages. I found out something – not much, but something.’
‘And then?’
‘Oh, all the time I was making inquiries about Medina’s past – not very fruitful I’ve told you most of the results. Then I went to see Ram Dass – you remember my speaking about him. I thought he was in Munich, but I found him in Westphalia, keeping an eye on the German industrials. Don’t go to Germany for a holiday, Dick; it’s a sad country and a comfortless. I had to see Ram Dass, for he happens to be the brother of Kharáma.’
‘What size of a fellow is Kharáma?’ I asked.
Sandy’s reply was: ‘For knowledge of the practice unequalled but only a second-class practitioner’ – exactly what Medina had said.
‘Ram Dass told me most of what I wanted to know. But he isn’t aware that his brother is in Europe. I rather fancy he thinks he is dead… That’s all I need to tell you now. Fire away, Dick, and give me an exact account of your own doings.’
I explained as best I could the gradual change in Medina’s manner from friendship to proprietorship. I told how he had begun to talk freely to me, as if I were a disciple, and I described that extraordinary evening in Hill Street when I had met his mother.
‘His mother!’ Sandy exclaimed, and made me go over every incident several times – the slap in the face, the spitting, my ultimate fainting. He seemed to enjoy it immensely. ‘Good business,’ he said. ‘You never did a better day’s work, old man.’
‘I have found the Blind Spinner at any rate,’ I said.
‘Yes. I had half guessed it. I didn’t mention it, but when I got into the house in Gospel Oak as the electric light man, I found a spinning-wheel in the back room, and they had been burning peat on the hearth. Well, that’s Number One.’
‘I think I am on my way to find Number Two,’ I said, and I told him of the talk I had overheard between the two about secundus and sending ‘the doctor’ somewhere, and of how I had discovered that Dr Newhover was starting this very day for the Skarso. ‘It’s the first clear clue,’ I said, ‘and I think I ought to follow it up.’
‘Yes. What do you propose to do?’
‘I am travelling this evening on the Gudrun and I’m going to trail the fellow till I find out his game. I’m bound to act upon what little information we’ve got.’
‘I agree. But this means a long absence from London, and secundus is only one of three.’
‘Just a week,’ I said. ‘I’ve got sick leave from Medina for a week, and I’m supposed to be having a rest cure at Fosse, with Mary warding off visitors. I’ve arranged with Archie Roylance to pick me up in an aeroplane about the 28th and bring me back. It doesn’t allow me much time, but an active man can do the deuce of a lot in a week.’
‘Bravo!’ he cried. ‘That’s our old moss-trooping self!’
‘Do you approve?’
‘Entirely. And, whatever happens, you present yourself to Medina on the 29th? That leaves us about six weeks for the rest of the job.’
‘More like five,’ I said gloomily, and I told him how I had learnt that the gang proposed to liquidate by midsummer, and that Macgillivray had therefore moved the date when he would take action ten days forward. ‘You see how we are placed. He must collect all the gang at the same moment, and we must release all three hostages, if we can, at the same time. The releasing mustn’t be done too soon or it will warn the gang. Therefore if Macgillivray strikes on the 10th of June, we must be ready to strike not earlier than the 9th and, of course, not later.’
‘I see,’ he said, and was silent for a little. ‘Have you anything more to tell me?’
I ransacked my memory and remembered about Odell. He wrote down the name of the dancing club where I had seen that unprepossessing butler. I mentioned that I had asked Macgillivray to get on to his dossier.
‘You haven’t told Macgillivray too much?’ he inquired anxiously and seemed relieved when I replied that I had never mentioned the Medina business.
‘Well, here’s the position,’ he said at last. ‘You go off for a week hunting Number Two. We are pretty certain that we have got Number One. Number Three – that nonsense about the fields of Eden and the Jew with a dyed beard in a curiosity shop in Marylebone – still eludes us. And of course we have as yet no word of any of the three hostages. There’s a terrible lot still to do. How do you envisage the thing, Dick? Do you think of the three, the girl, the young man, and the boy, shut up somewhere and guarded by Medina’s minions? Do you imagine that if we find their places of concealment we shall have done the job?’
‘That was my idea.’
He shook his head. ‘It is far subtler than that. Did no one ever tell you that the best way of hiding a person is to strip him of his memory? Why is it that when a man loses his memory he is so hard to find? You see it constantly in the newspapers. Even a well-known figure, if he loses his memory and wanders away, is only discovered by accident. The reason is that the human personality is identified far less by appearance than by its habits and mind. Loss of memory means the loss of all true marks of identification, and the physical look alters to correspond. Medina has stolen these three poor souls’ memories and set them adrift like waifs. David Warcliff may at this moment be playing in a London gutter along with a dozen guttersnipes and his own father could scarcely pick him out from the rest. Mercot may be a dock labourer or a deck hand, whom you wouldn’t recognize if you met him, though you had sat opposite him in a college hall every night for a year. And Miss Victor may be in a gaiety chorus or a milliner’s assistant or a girl in a dancing saloon. Wait a minute. You saw Odell at a dance-club? There may be something in that.’ I could see his eyes abstracted in thought.
‘There’s another thing I forgot to mention,’ I said. ‘Miss Victor’s fiancé is over here, staying in Carlton House Terrace. He is old Turpin, who used to be with the division – the Marquis de la Tour du Pin.’
Sandy wrote the name down. ‘Her fiancé. He may come in useful. What sort of fellow?’
‘Brave as a lion, but he’ll want watching, for he’s a bit of a Gascon.’
We went out after breakfast and sat in an arbour looking down a shallow side-valley to the upper streams of the Windrush. The sounds of morning were beginning to rise from the little village far away in the bottom, the jolt of a wagon, the ‘clink-clenk’ from the smithy, the babble of children at play. In a fortnight the may-fly would be here, and every laburnum and guelder rose in bloom. Sandy, who had been away from England for years, did not speak for a long time, but drank in the sweet-scented peace of it. ‘Poor devil,’ he said at last. ‘He has nothing like this to love. He can only hate.’
I asked whom he was talking about, and he said ‘Medina’.
‘I’m trying to understand him. You can’t fight a man unless you understand him, and in a way sympathize with him.’
‘Well, I can’t say I sympathize with him, and I most certainly don’t understand him.’
‘Do you remember once telling me that he had no vanity? You were badly out there. He has a vanity which amounts to delirium.
‘This is how I read him,’ he went on. ‘To begin with, there’s a far-away streak of the Latin in him, but he is mainly Irish, and that never makes a good cross. He’s the déraciné Irish, such as you find in America. I take it that he imbibed from that terrible old woman – I’ve never met her, but I see her plainly and I know that she is terrible – he imbibed that venomous hatred of imaginary things – an imaginary England, an imaginary civilization, which they call love of country. There is no lo
ve in it. They think there is, and sentimentalize about an old simplicity, and spinning wheels and turf fires and an uncouth language, but it’s all hollow. There’s plenty of decent plain folk in Ireland, but his kind of déraciné is a ghastly throw-back to something you find in the dawn of history, hollow and cruel like the fantastic gods of their own myths. Well, you start with this ingrained hate.’
‘I agree about the old lady. She looked like Lady Macbeth.’
‘But hate soon becomes conceit. If you hate, you despise, and when you despise you esteem inordinately the self which despises. This is how I look at it, but remember, I’m still in the dark and only feeling my way to an understanding. I see Medina growing up – I don’t know in what environment – conscious of great talents and immense good looks, flattered by those around him till he thinks himself a god. His hatred does not die, but it is transformed into a colossal egotism and vanity, which, of course, is a form of hate. He discovers quite early that he has this remarkable hypnotic power – Oh, you may laugh at it, because you happen to be immune from it, but it is a big thing in the world for all that. He discovers another thing – that he has an extraordinary gift of attracting people and making them believe in him. Some of the worst scoundrels in history have had it. Now, remember his vanity. It makes him want to play the biggest game. He does not want to be a king among pariahs; he wants to be the ruler of what is most strange to him, what he hates and in an unwilling bitter way admires. So he aims at conquering the very heart, the very soundest part of our society. Above all he wants to be admired by men and admitted into the innermost circle.’
‘He has succeeded all right,’ I said.
‘He has succeeded, and that is the greatest possible tribute to his huge cleverness. Everything about him is dead right – clothes, manner, modesty, accomplishments. He has made himself an excellent sportsman. Do you know why he shoots so well, Dick? By faith – or fatalism, if you like. His vanity doesn’t allow him to believe that he could miss… But he governs himself strictly. In his life he is practically an ascetic, and though he is adored by women he doesn’t care a straw for them. There are no lusts of the flesh in that kind of character. He has one absorbing passion which subdues all others – what our friend Michael Scott called “hominum dominatus”.’
‘I see that. But how do you explain the other side?’
‘It is all the ancestral hate. First of all, of course, he has got to have money, so he gets it in the way Macgillivray knows about. Second, he wants to build up a regiment of faithful slaves. That’s where you come in, Dick. There is always that inhuman hate at the back of his egotism. He wants to conquer in order to destroy, for destruction is the finest meat for his vanity. You’ll find the same thing in the lives of Eastern tyrants, for when a man aspires to be like God he becomes an incarnate devil.’
‘It is a tough proposition,’ I observed dismally.
‘It would be an impossible proposition, but for one thing. He is always in danger of giving himself away out of sheer arrogance. Did you ever read the old Irish folk-lore? Very beautiful it is, but there is always something fantastic and silly which mars the finest stories. They lack the grave good-sense which you find in the Norse sagas and, of course, in the Greek. Well, he has this freakish element in his blood. That is why he sent out that rhyme about the three hostages, which by an amazing concatenation of chances put you on to his trail. Our hope is – and, mind you, I think it is a slender hope – that his vanity may urge him to further indiscretions.’
‘I don’t know how you feel about it,’ I said ‘but I’ve got a pretty healthy hatred for that lad. I’m longing for a quiet life, but I swear I won’t settle down again till I’ve got even with him.’
‘You never will,’ said Sandy solemnly. ‘Don’t let’s flatter ourselves that you and I are going to down Medina. We are not. A very wise man once said to me that in this life you could often get success, if you didn’t want victory. In this case we’re out for success only. We want to release the hostages. Victory we can never hope for. Why, man, supposing we succeed fully, we’ll never to able to connect Medina with the thing. His tools are faithful, because he has stolen their souls and they work blindly under him. Supposing Macgillivray rounds up all the big gang and puts the halter round their necks. There will be none of them to turn King’s evidence and give Medina away. Why? Because none of them know anything against him. They’re his unconscious agents, and very likely most have never seen him. And you may be pretty sure that his banking accounts are too skilfully arranged to show anything.’
‘All the same,’ I said stubbornly, ‘I have a notion that I’ll be able to put a spoke in the wheel.’
‘Oh, I dare say we can sow suspicion, but I believe he’ll be too strong for us. He’ll advance in his glorious career, and may become Prime Minister – or Viceroy of India – what a chance the second would be for him! – and publish exquisite little poetry books, as finished and melancholy as The Shropshire Lad. Pessimism, you know, is often a form of vanity.’
At midday it was time for me to be off, if I was to be at Hull by six o’clock. I asked Sandy what he proposed to do next, and he said he was undecided. ‘My position,’ he said, ‘badly cramps my form. It would be ruination if Medina knew I was in England – ruination for both you and me. Mr Alexander Thomson must lie very low. I must somehow get in touch with Macgillivray to hear if he has anything about Odell. I rather fancy Odell. But there will probably be nothing doing till you come back, and I think I’ll have a little fishing.’
‘Suppose I want to get hold of you?’
‘Suppose nothing of the kind. You mustn’t make any move in my direction. That’s our only safety. If I want you, I’ll come to you.’
As I was starting he said suddenly: ‘I’ve never met your wife, Dick. What about my going over to Fosse and introducing myself?’
‘The very thing,’ I cried. ‘She is longing to meet you. But remember that I’m supposed to be lying sick upstairs.’
As I looked back he was waving his hand, and his face wore its familiar elfish smile.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
How a German Engineer Found Strange Fishing
I got to Hull about six o’clock, having left my car at a garage in York, and finished the journey by train. I had my kit in a small suit-case and rucksack, and I waited on the quay till I saw Dr Newhover arrive with a lot of luggage and a big rod-box. When I reckoned he would be in his cabin arranging his belongings, I went on board myself, and went straight to my own cabin, which was a comfortable two-berthed one well forward. There I had sandwiches brought me, and settled myself to doze and read for thirty-six hours.
All that night and all next day it blew fairly hard, and I remained quietly in my bunk, trying to read Boswell’s Life of Johnson, and thanking my stars that I hadn’t lived a thousand years earlier and been a Viking. I didn’t see myself ploughing those short steep seas in an open galley. I woke on the morning of the 23rd to find the uneasy motion at an end, and, looking out of my port-hole, saw a space of green sunlit water, rocky beach, and the white and red of a little town. The Gudrun waited about an hour at Stavanger, so I gave Dr Newhover time to get on shore, before I had a hurried breakfast in the saloon and followed him. I saw him go off with two men, and get on board a motor-launch which was lying beside one of the jetties. The coast was now clear, so I went into the town, found the agents to whom Archie Roylance had cabled, and learned that my own motor-launch was ready and waiting in the inner harbour where the fishing-boats lie. A clerk took me down there, and introduced me to Johan my skipper, a big, cheerful, bearded Norwegian, who had a smattering of English. I bought a quantity of provisions, and by ten o’clock we were on the move. I asked Johan about the route to Merdal, and he pointed out a moving speck a couple of miles ahead of us. ‘That is Kristian Egge’s boat,’ he said. ‘He carries an English fisherman to Merdal and we follow.’ I got my glasses on the craft, and made out Newhover smoking in the stern.
It was a gorgeous day, wit
h that funny Northern light which makes noon seem like early morning. I enjoyed every hour of it, partly because I had now a definite job before me, and partly because I was in the open air to which I properly belonged. I got no end of amusement watching the wild life – the cormorants and eider-duck on the little islands, and the seals, with heads as round as Medina’s, that slipped off the skerries at our approach. The air was chilly and fresh, but when we turned the corner of the Merdalfjord out of the sea-wind and the sun climbed the sky it was as warm as June. A big flat island we passed, all short turf and rocky outcrops, was pointed out to me by Johan as Flacksholm. Soon we were shaping due east in an inlet which was surrounded by dark steep hills, with the snow lying in the gullies. I had Boswell with me in two volumes; the first I had read in the steamer, and the second I was now starting on, when it fell overboard, through my getting up in a hurry to look at a flock of duck. So I presented the odd volume to Johan, and surrendered myself to tobacco and meditation.
In the afternoon the inlet narrowed to a fjord, and the walls of hill grew steeper. They were noble mountains, cut sharp like the edge of the Drakensberg, and crowned with a line of snow, so that they looked like a sugar-coated cake that had been sliced. Streams came out of the upper snow-wreaths and hurled themselves down the steeps – above a shimmering veil of mist, and below a torrent of green water tumbling over pebbles to the sea. The landscape and the weather lulled me into a delectable peace which refused to be disturbed by any ‘looking before or after’, as some poet says. Newhover was ahead of me – we never lost track of his launch – and it was my business to see what he was up to and to keep myself out of his sight. The ways and means of it I left to fortune to provide.
