The Complete Richard Hannay: The Thirty-Nine Steps , Greenmantle , Mr Standfas

by John Buchan

  When I lifted my head Mary had arrived. No more paint and powder and bizarre clothes. She was wearing the pale blue gown she had worn at our Hunt Ball in March, and her hair was dressed in the simple way I loved, which showed all the lights and shadows in the gold. She came in like a young queen, cast a swift glance round the room, and then, shading her eyes with her hand, looking up towards the casement. It must have been a signal, for I saw a hand wave.

  As she stood there, very still and poised like a runner, the music stopped suddenly. The few men who were still dancing spoke to their partners and moved towards the door. I observed the bearded Jew hurry in and look round. A man touched him on the arm and drew him away, and that was the last I saw of him.

  Suddenly Odell reappeared. He must have had some warning which required instant action. I shall never know what it was, but it may have announced the round-up, and the course to be followed towards the hostages. He signed peremptorily to Miss Victor and went forward as if to take her arm. ‘You gotta come along,’ I heard, when my eyes were occupied with a new figure.

  Turpin was there, a pale taut young man with his brows knit as I remembered them in tight corners in France. The green girl had darted to Mary’s side, and Turpin strode up to her.

  ‘Adela, my dear,’ he said, ‘I think it is time for you to be going home.’

  The next I saw was Miss Victor’s hand clutching his arm and Odell advancing with a flush on his sallow face.

  ‘You letta go that goil,’ he was saying. ‘You got no business with her. She’s my goil.’

  Turpin was smiling. ‘I think not, my friend.’ He disengaged Adela’s arm and put her behind him, and with a swift step struck Odell a resounding smack on the cheek with the flat of his hand.

  The man seemed to swell with fury. ‘Hell!’ he cried, with a torrent of Bowery oaths. ‘My smart guy, I’ve got something in my mitt for you. You for the sleep pill.’

  I would have given a fortune to be in Turpin’s place, for I felt that a scrap was what I needed to knit up my ragged nerves. But I couldn’t chip in, for this was clearly his special quarrel, and very soon I saw that he was not likely to need my help.

  Smiling wickedly, he moved round the pug, who had his fists up. ‘Fiche-moi la paix’, he crooned. ‘My friend, I am going to massacre you.’

  I stepped towards Mary, for I wanted to get the women outside, but she was busy attending to Miss Victor, whom the strain of the evening had left on the verge of swooning. So I only saw bits of the fight. Turpin kept Odell at long range, for infighting would have been fatal, and he tired him with his lightning movements, till the professional’s bad training told and his wind went. When the Frenchman saw his opponent puffing and his cheeks mottling he started to sail in. That part I witnessed, and I hope that Mary and Miss Victor did not understand old Turpin’s language, for he spoke gently to himself the whole time, and it was the quintessence of all the esoteric abuse that the French poilu accumulated during the four years of war. His tremendous reach gave him an advantage, he was as light on his legs as a fencer, and his arms seemed to shoot out with the force of a steam-hammer. I realized what I have never known before, that his slimness was deceptive and that stripped he would be a fine figure of sinew and bone. Also I understood that a big fellow, however formidable, if he is untrained and a little drunk, will go down before speed and quick wits and the deftness of youth.

  They fought for just over six minutes. Turpin’s deadliest blows were on Odell’s body, but the knockout came with one on the point of the chin. The big man crumpled up in a heap, and the back of his head banged on the floor. Turpin wrapped a wisp of a handkerchief round his knuckles, which had suffered from Odell’s solitaire, and looked about him.

  ‘What is to become of this offal?’ he asked.

  One of the dancers replied. ‘We will look after him, sir. The whole house is in our hands. This man is wanted on a good many grounds.’

  I walked up to the prostrate Odell, and took the latch-key from his waistcoat pocket. Turpin and Adela had gone, and Mary stood watching me. I observed that she was very pale.

  ‘I am going to Hill Street,’ I said.

  ‘I will come later,’ was her answer. ‘I hope in less than an hour. The key will let you in. There will be people there to keep the door open for me.’

  Her face had the alert and absorbed look that old Peter Pienaar’s used to have when he was after big game. There was no other word spoken between us. She entered a big saloon-car which was waiting in the street below, and I walked to Royston Square to find a taxi. It was not yet eleven o’clock.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Night of the First of June – Later

  A little after eleven that night a late walker in Palmyra Square would have seen a phenomenon rare in the dingy neighbourhood. A large motor-car drew up at the gate of No. 7, where dwelt the teacher of music who had long retired to rest. A woman descended, wearing a dark cloak and carrying a parcel, and stood for a second looking across the road to where the lean elms in the centre of the square made a patch of shade. She seemed to find there what she expected, for she hastened to the gate of No 4. She did not approach the front door, but ran down the path to the back where the tradesmen called, and as soon as she was out of sight several figures emerged from the shadow and moved towards the gate.

  Miss Outhwaite opened to her tap. ‘My, but you’re late, miss,’ she whispered, as the woman brushed past her into the dim kitchen. Then she gasped, for some transformation had taken place in the district-visitor. It was no longer a faded spinster that she saw, but a dazzling lady, gorgeously dressed as it seemed to her, and of a remarkable beauty.

  ‘I’ve brought your hat, Elsie,’ she said. ‘It’s rather a nice one, and I think you’ll like it. Now go at once and open the front door.’

  ‘But Madame…’ the girl gasped.

  ‘Never mind Madame. You are done with Madame. Tomorrow you will come and see me at this address,’ and she gave her a slip of paper. ‘I will see that you do not suffer. Now hurry, my dear.’

  The girl seemed to be mesmerized, and turned to obey. The district-visitor followed her, but did not wait in the hall. Instead, she ran lightly up the stairs, guiding herself by a small electric torch, and when the front door was open and four silent figures had entered she was nowhere to be seen.

  For the next quarter of an hour an inquisitive passer-by would have noted lights spring out and then die away in more than one room in No. 4. He might have also heard the sound of low excited speech. At the end of that space of time he would have seen the district-visitor descend the steps and enter the big car which had moved up to the gate. She was carrying something in her arms.

  Within, in a back room, a furious woman was struggling with a telephone, from which she got no answer, since the line had been cut. And an old woman sat in a chair by the hearth, raving and muttering, with a face like death.

  When I got to Hill Street, I waited till the taxi had driven off before I entered. There was a man standing in the porch of the house opposite, and as I waited another passed me, who nodded. ‘Good evening, Sir Richard,’ he said, and though I did not recognize him I knew where he came from. My spirits were at their lowest ebb, and not even the sight of these arrangements could revive them. For I knew that, though we had succeeded with Miss Victor and Mercot, we had failed with the case which mattered most. I was going to try to scare Medina or to buy him, and I felt that both purposes were futile, for the awe of him was still like a black fog on my soul.

  I let myself in with Odell’s latch-key and left the heavy door ajar. Then I switched on the staircase lights and mounted to the library. I left the lights burning behind me, for they would be needed by those who followed.

  Medina was standing by the fireplace, in which logs had been laid ready for a match. As usual, he had only the one lamp lit, that on his writing-table. He had a slip of paper in his hand, one of the two which had lain in the top drawer, as I saw by the dates and the ruled lines. I fan
cy he had been attempting in vain to ring up Palmyra Square. Some acute suspicion had been aroused in him, and he had been trying to take action. His air of leisure was the kind which is hastily assumed; a minute before I was convinced he had been furiously busy.

  There was surprise in his face when he saw me.

  ‘Hullo!’ he said, ‘how did you get in? I didn’t hear you ring. I told Odell to go to bed.’

  I was feeling so weak and listless that I wanted to sit down, so I dropped into a chair out of the circle of the lamp.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Odells in bed all right. I let myself in with his key. I’ve just seen that Bowery tough put to sleep with a crack on the chin from Turpin. You know – the Marquis de la Tour du Pin.’

  I had a good strategic position, for I could see his face clearly and he could only see the outline of mine.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he said.

  ‘Odell has been knocked out. You see, Turpin has taken Miss Victor back to her father.’ I looked at my watch. ‘And by this time Lord Mercot should be in London – unless the Scotch express is late.’

  A great tide of disillusion must have swept over his mind, but his face gave no sign of it. It had grown stern, but as composed as a judge’s.

  ‘You’re behaving as if you were mad. What has come over you? I know nothing of Lord Mercot – you mean the Alcester boy? Or Miss Victor.’

  ‘Oh yes, you do,’ I said wearily. I did not know where to begin, for I wanted to get at once to the real business. ‘It’s a long story. Do you want me to tell it when you know it all already?’ I believe I yawned and I felt so tired I could hardly put the sentences together.

  ‘I insist that you explain this nonsense,’ was his reply. One thing he must have realized by now, that he had no power over me, for his jaw was set and his eyes stern, as if he were regarding not a satellite, but an enemy and an equal.

  ‘Well, you and your friends for your own purposes took three hostages, and I have made it my business to free them. I let you believe that your tomfoolery had mastered me – your performance in this room and Newhover and Madame Breda and the old blind lady and all the rest of it. When you thought I was drugged and demented I was specially wide awake. I had to abuse your hospitality – rather a dirty game, you may say, but then I was dealing with a scoundrel. I went to Norway when you thought I was in bed at Fosse, and I found Mercot, and I expect at this moment Newhover is feeling rather cheap… Miss Victor, too. She wasn’t very difficult, once we hit on the Fields of Eden. You’re a very clever man, Mr Medina, but you oughtn’t to circulate doggerel verses. Take my advice and stick to good poetry.’

  By this time the situation must have been clear to him, but there was not a quiver in that set hard face. I take off my hat to the best actor I have ever met – the best but one, the German count who lies buried at the farm of Gavrelle.

  ‘You’ve gone off your head,’ he said, and his quiet considerate voice belied his eyes.

  ‘Oh no! I rather wish I had. I hate to think that there can be so base a thing in the world as you. A man with the brains of a god and living only to glut his rotten vanity! You should be scotched like a snake.’

  For a moment I had a blessed thought that he was about to go for me, for I would have welcomed a scrap like nothing else on earth. There may have been a flicker of passion, but it was quickly suppressed. His eyes had become grave and reproachful.

  ‘I have been kind to you,’ he said, ‘and have treated you as a friend. This is my reward. The most charitable explanation is that your wits are unhinged. But you had better leave this house.’

  ‘Not before you hear me out. I have something to propose, Mr Medina. You have still a third hostage in your hands. We are perfectly aware of the syndicate you have been working with – the Barcelona nut business, and the Jacobite count, and your friend the Shropshire master-of-hounds. Scotland Yard has had its hand over the lot for months, and tonight the hand will be closed. That shop is shut for good. Now listen to me, for I have a proposal to make. You have the ambition of the devil, and have already made for yourself a great name. I will do nothing to smirch that name. I will swear a solemn oath to hold my tongue. I will go away from England, if you like. I will bury the memory of the past months, and my knowledge will never be used to put a spoke in your wheel. Also, since your syndicate is burst up, you will want money. Well, I will give you one hundred thousand pounds. And in return for my silence and my cash I ask you to restore to me David Warcliff, safe and sane. Sane, I say, for whatever you have made of the poor little chap you have got to unmake it.’

  I had made up my mind about this offer as I came along in the taxi. It was a big sum, but I had more money than I needed, and Blenkiron, who had millions, would lend a hand.

  His face showed no response, no interest, only the same stern melancholy regard.

  ‘Poor devil!’ he said. ‘You’re madder than I thought.’

  My lassitude was disappearing, and I began to get angry.

  ‘If you do not agree,’ I said, ‘I will blacken your reputation throughout the civilized world. What use will England have for a kidnapper and blackmailer and – a – bogus magician?’

  But as I spoke I knew that my threats were foolish. He smiled, a wise, pitying smile, which made me shiver with wrath.

  ‘No, it is you who will appear as the blackmailer,’ he said softly. ‘Consider. You are making the most outrageous charges. I don’t quite follow your meaning, but clearly they are outrageous – and what evidence have you to support them? Your own dreams. Who will believe you? I have had the good fortune to make many friends, and they are loyal friends.’ There was a gentle regret in his voice. ‘Your story will be laughed to scorn. Of course people will be sorry for you, for you are popular in a way. They will say that a meritorious soldier, more notable perhaps for courage than for brains, has gone crazy, and they will comment on the long-drawn-out effects of the War. I must of course protect myself. If you blackguard me I will prosecute you for slander and get your mental condition examined.’

  It was only too true. I had no evidence except my own word. I knew that it would be impossible to link up Medina with the doings of the syndicate – he was too clever for that. His blind mother would die on the rack before she spoke, and his tools could not give him away, because they were tools and knew nothing. The world would laugh at me if I opened my mouth. At that moment I think I had my first full realization of Medina’s quality. Here was a man who had just learned that his pet schemes were shattered, who had had his vanity wounded to the quick by the revelation of how I had fooled him, and yet he could play what was left of the game with coolness and precision. I had struck the largest size of opponent.

  ‘What about the hundred thousand pounds, then?’ I asked. ‘That is my offer for David Warcliff.’

  ‘You are very good,’ he said mockingly. ‘I might feel insulted, if I did not know you were a lunatic.’

  I sat there staring at the figure in the glow of the one lamp which seemed to wax more formidable as I looked, and a thousandfold more sinister. I saw the hideous roundness of his head, the mercilessness of his eyes, so that I wondered how I had ever thought him handsome. But now that most of his game was spoiled he only seemed the greater, the more assured. Were there no gaps in his defences? He had kinks in him – witness the silly rhyme which had given me the first clue – Was there no weakness in that panoply which I could use? Physical fear – physical pain – could anything be done with that?

  I got to my feet with a blind notion of closing with him. He divined my intention, for he showed something in his hand which gleamed dully. ‘Take care,’ he said. ‘I can defend myself against any maniac.’

  ‘Put it away,’ I said hopelessly. ‘You’re safe enough from me. My God, I hope that somewhere there is a hell.’ I felt as feeble as a babe, and all the while the thought of the little boy was driving me mad.

  *

  Suddenly I saw Medina’s eyes look over my shoulder. Someone
had come into the room, and I turned and found Kharáma.

  He was in evening dress, wearing a turban, and in the dusk his dark malign face seemed an embodied sneer at my helplessness. I did not see how Medina took his arrival, for all at once something seemed to give in my head. For the Indian I felt none now of the awe which I had for the other, only a flaming, overpowering hate. That this foul thing out of the East should pursue his devilries unchecked seemed to be beyond bearing. I forgot Medina’s pistol and everything else, and went for him like a wild beast.

  He dodged me, and, before I knew, had pulled off his turban, and tossed it in my face.

  ‘Don’t be an old ass, Dick,’ he said.

  Panting with fury, I stopped short and stared. The voice was Sandy’s, and so was the figure… And the face, too, when I came to look into it. He had done something with the corners of his eyebrows and tinted the lids with kohl, but the eyes, which I had never before seen properly opened, were those of my friend.

  ‘What an artist the world has lost in me!’ he laughed, and tried to tidy his disordered hair.

  Then he nodded to Medina. ‘We meet again sooner than we expected. I missed my train, and came to look for Dick… Lay down that pistol, please. I happen to be armed too, you see. It’s no case for shooting anyhow. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  He flung himself into an armchair and lit a cigarette. Once more I was conscious of my surroundings, for hitherto for all I knew I might have been arguing in a desert. My eyes had cleared and my brain was beginning to work again. I saw the great room with its tiers of books, some glimmering, some dusky; Sandy taking his ease in his chair and gazing placidly up into Medina’s face; Medina with his jaw set but his eyes troubled – yes, for the first time I saw flickers of perplexity in those eyes.