The Smiler With the Knife

by Nicholas Blake

  Georgia believed she was safe for the present, but it would never do to relax her vigilance. Alone in the compartment, she decided to keep awake by reading through Plan A and making a mental précis of it which she could transmit to Sir John Strangeways over the phone. She took the papers out of her dress and began to read. Her sensibilities dulled by exhaustion, she could feel no triumph in having the E.B.’s secret here under her hands as well as Chilton Canteloe’s Plan B in her head. She might have been perusing the prospectus of a respectable company for all the thrill it gave her. Indeed, with its cold, impersonal setting-out of detail, its translation of flesh-and-blood hopes, greed, fears, idealism into an inhuman document, the plan did read rather like a company-prospectus.

  At last the train drew into Manchester. Georgia had to pay for her ticket at the barrier. It reminded her how fallible she was. She ought to have got a ticket at the other end, as well as the one for London: this transaction would draw attention to her, and when the E.B. had discovered she was not on the London train, they would naturally start inquiries about other trains which had left Nottingham early this morning.

  She was too tired to worry much about it now. Carrying the suitcase into the station hotel, she booked a room under the name of Anita Clay. Luckily the suitcase was a fitted one, heavy enough for the page who took it from her not to suspect that “Anita Clay” had no personal belongings in it at all. The initials stamped on it, C.A.C.—Chilton Anstruther Canteloe—were near enough the initials of Anita Clay to rouse no comment, she hoped.

  Now that she was temporarily in refuge, the reaction of the night set in. The hotel’s solid furniture swam before her eyes as if it were built of swirling fog: her whole body ached, and her feet felt like feather-stuffed bolsters. In the bedroom at last, the door locked, the betraying, empty suitcase tucked away under the bed, she reached out her hand for the telephone. Had she put through the long-distance call to Sir John at this moment, she might have been saved a great deal of trouble. But fatally she thought, it’ll be a long conversation, I might as well do it in comfort; and undressed and washed, and got into bed in her underclothes. That nicely-sprung bed, the soft pillows, were too much for her. As her hand reached out for the telephone again, her eyelids would hold up no longer and sleep blacked out everything.

  It was after midday when Georgia woke. Refreshed by sleep, she came awake with all her senses about her. She rang down for coffee, toast and the first edition of the evening papers. Yes, as she had expected, it was all there. Historic Mansion Gutted. Popular Millionaire Injured Fighting Flames. Injured. Only injured. That is bad. We have scotched the snake, not killed it. I’m getting soft. I ought to have finished him last night. I ought—oh God, I ought to have rung up Uncle John. With Chilton still alive, and his plans stolen, not one of us is safe. But I was so sleepy. No excuses, my girl. You must make the best of it and get in touch with Uncle John, now before it’s too late.

  But it was too late. As she put the newspaper aside, her eye lit on another column. It reported that, walking to his office in Scotland Yard this morning, Sir John Strangeways, head of C. Department, had been knocked down by a car and was now in a critical condition. The car had not stopped. The police, however, were confident, etc.

  Like hell the car didn’t stop, she thought. I should have risked taking that train to London. I was thinking so hard about how to save my own skin, and now Uncle John . . . Oh, damn them all!

  Georgia was so fond of Nigel’s uncle, so horrified by the knowledge that she might have saved him from this lightning counter-stroke of the E.B. that she did not realise for a moment how much her own position was altered for the worse. Even supposing Sir John recovered, he would be hors-de-combat for at least a week, she imagined. And, during that time, what should she do? Sir John had given her strict orders that, when she obtained any really vital information, she must convey it directly to him. She had no idea, so wide were the ramifications of the E.B. by now, which of his subordinates could be trusted; neither could she rely upon any protection from him for the present. She could not even walk into the nearest police-station and hand over the responsibility to them, for—though the majority of the police were no doubt still loyal—she could not be sure of any individual one.

  “Georgia, my lass,” she murmured to herself, sipping her lukewarm coffee, “you’re on the run. They’ve got you going and coming. The fun is only just beginning.”

  The thought filled her with an absurd exhilaration. She’d got out of tight places before, and she might do it again if the luck ran her way.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE EPISODE OF THE FATHER CHRISTMASES

  GEORGIA’S FIRST IMPULSE was to ring up Nigel at Oxford and enlist his help. She desperately wanted him, even if it was only to hear the comfort of his voice for a few minutes. But she realised this would never do. In the first place, he had probably left Oxford to be with his uncle. Besides, it would only be bringing him into the danger-zone: whoever she attempted to communicate with might be marked down by the E.B. and attacked with the same ruthlessness that had been used on Sir John. She was like a person with a contagious disease: she must isolate herself from those she loved or they too would be struck down.

  Alison Grove was another matter. Alison had been in this from the start, and she should be able to put her in touch with those who were carrying on Sir John Strangeways’ work. Heartened by the thought of speaking with her friend, Georgia dressed and went to the hotel dining-room for lunch. She did not suppose that the E.B. could have caught up with her yet, but for all that it might be safer not to ring up Alison from the hotel. So, after lunch, she strolled out into the station and entered a public call-box. Alison, fortunately, was at her flat when the call went through.

  “Hello, Alison? This is Georgia.”

  “Hello! I see you’ve been indulging in arson, ducky.”

  “I’d have indulged in murder too if I’d had the sense—and a bit more time. Listen, darling, please don’t chatter, we’ll all have to move fast now. I’ve got hold of the doings. C.C. and the whole E.B. are out after me. You realise it was they who did that to Uncle John? How is he?”

  “As well as you could expect. They say he has a fifty-fifty chance. Georgia, for heaven’s sake, did you say you’d got hold of the——?”

  “Yes. There are two plans. One’s on paper and the other’s in my head. I haven’t time to explain. What’s my next move?”

  “Where are you? No! Wait a minute. You remember the Puce Goat?”

  “Yes. But what on earth——?” The Puce Goat was the long-suffering mistress who, some twenty years ago, had taught them both Latin—so called because of her complexion and incipient beard. It was soon explained. Alison broke into a rattle of dog-Latin.

  “Ubi es nunc, amice?”

  “In urbe castra hominis.” Georgia hoped this would convey Manchester.

  “In what? Oh, I get you. Mane ubi es. Curabo auxilium mittendum.”

  All very well to tell her to stay where she was, thought Georgia: the E.B. might find her before Alison’s promised help arrived. She told Alison, in halting Latin, that—if she had to move away from here—she would try and get to Oxford.

  “Habesne satis pecuniœ?”

  Georgia was reminded that she had very little money left. It was arranged that her friend should wire an order for £50, which she could pick up at the Manchester branch of her bank. They arranged a rendezvous in Manchester where Georgia could meet the escort Alison would be sending. Georgia had memorised the names of the E.B. organisers and the various centres of the conspiracy in England: she was about to pass these on to Alison when her eyes, straying through the glass partition of the telephone booth, lighted on David Renton.

  Impeccably dressed in black overcoat and pinstripe trousers, his white, fleshy face bland under the bowler-hat, Chilton Canteloe’s secretary was earnestly conversing with the ticket-collector at the barrier. He looked the picture of respectability. So did the two young men in plus-fours and po
rk-pie hats lounging at the cigarette kiosk, to whom Renton, turning away now from the barrier, made an unobtrusive sign.

  “Ring off, Alison. Some of the boys have arrived,” said Georgia, and ducked down out of their sight behind the wooden door.

  She thanked her stars she had brought the E.B. papers with her. There could be no going back to the hotel now. Renton would search there first, and that infernal suitcase would tell him all he needed to know. Georgia had to decide quickly between leaving Manchester at once with the little money she had, or staying till the bank opened again to-morrow morning. To stay was dangerous; but, without money, she would be helpless. It was not simply a matter of buying a ticket to Oxford. She must have some disguise if she hoped to get there safely. Slipping out of the telephone-booth, she jumped into a taxi and told the man to drive her to a small hotel in one of the suburbs. On the way she stopped and bought a cheap suitcase, a pair of pyjamas and a few necessaries. Her money now, when she had paid her bill for the night, would be nearly exhausted.

  She spent the evening making a précis of Plan A. and writing an account of Plan B. She would keep the original plan in her bag, so that, if the E.B. got her, they would have no difficulty in finding it. The copy and Plan B she decided to conceal on her own person: she might, after all, be able to escape from them again, though they would not be likely to leave loopholes. The problem of disposing of the copy now arose. It was all very well for people in books to talk so gaily about concealing papers on one’s person. When the papers were as bulky as Plan A, even in précis, they were not so easily disposed of. Georgia could not sew them inside the lining of her fur coat, for instance, since she intended to disguise herself in man’s clothing. After some thought she unpicked her corselette belt, slipped the sheets of paper between its satin panel and the lining, and sewed it up again. Her last action was to crop short her hair in readiness for to-morrow’s change of clothing.

  The next morning she paid her bill, packed her suitcase, took a taxi to the central branch of the bank, and received the money Alison had wired. She intended after this to find some small second-hand clothes shop where she could buy a man’s rig-out with the least danger of the purchase being traced to her. But no sooner had she stepped outside the bank than she perceived, on the opposite side of the road, one of the young men who had been with David Renton yesterday at the station. He glanced at her, deliberately folded up the paper he had been affecting to read, and waved it at someone further down the street.

  The E.B. certainly waste no time, she thought. This is where I get off. But surely they won’t try to kidnap me here, in the middle of the shopping-centre, among these crowds? Let’s hope they’re all men—the ones who are shadowing me now: they’ll need to be made of stern stuff if they’re going to follow me in here. And she turned in at the door of a huge department store, already beginning to fill up with women shoppers.

  The warm, scented air was a contrast with bleak Manchester outside. These hard-headed Mancunian housewives, obeying the advertisements which told them to Do Your Christmas Shopping Early, would have scoffed at the idea that every swing-door of the great building was now watched by a man who would stick at nothing to lay his hands on the small, fur-coated, Eton-cropped woman wandering dreamily from department to department. Georgia guessed they were there, though. She had only darted in here to give herself time to think, to invent a new plan, and because it was safer here than out in a street where cars could knock down pedestrians—as Uncle John had been knocked down—and drive on.

  She thought of entering the men’s department, buying suit, hat and overcoat, and changing somewhere on the premises. But this idea was soon rejected. Even if she were sufficiently well disguised to get past the watchers at the doors, her purchases could be too quickly traced and it would put them on her track again.

  That shop-walker’s eyes seemed to be fixed on her rather curiously, as she lingered amongst the Ladies’ Underwear. She became aware of the suitcase in her hand. It’d be darned funny if I was hauled up on suspicion of shop-lifting, she thought. It’s darned funny how guilty the very idea makes me feel—considering I’ve already let myself in for charges of arson, attempted murder of a millionaire, and theft of a millionaire’s Rolls-Royce, to say nothing of that unpaid bill at the station hotel. Georgia, you’re in a spot.

  She walked downstairs to the ladies’ room and left her suitcase there. At the far end of the room was a door marked “Staff Only.” It occurred to her that here might be an exit left unguarded by the E.B. men, and she determined to prospect it. Waiting till she was unobserved, she slipped through the door into a long passage. Like the behind-the-scenes of many other imposing façades, of theatres, restaurants or big shops, the passage was mean and ill-lighted. Georgia went down it till she heard voices in front of her. Employees, no doubt. She must pretend she’d lost herself, and ask them to show her the way out. She turned the corner, to be confronted by no indignant supervisor or giggling employees. Sitting on a bench, desultorily chatting, smoking cigarette stubs and spitting on the stone floor, were half a dozen Father Christmases.

  Georgia stopped dead in amazement. My recent experiences must have turned my brain. But no, there they are—one, two, three, four, five, six Father Christmases. Or should one say “Fathers Christmas”?

  Then she saw the sandwich-boards piled up in a corner. Of course: it was a poster-parade. Do Your Christmas Shopping Early. Come To Hallam and Appleby’s For Your Yule-Tide Gifts. Oh glory! thought Georgia; thank you, Santa Claus, for your nice present: the very thing I wanted. Now I can offer the E.B. the compliments of the season.

  She picked out a man who seemed nearest to her own size, and led him round the angle of the passage. The other five Father Christmases paid no attention at all, as if ladies in expensive fur coats were quite the normal thing in this lobby. Maybe they hadn’t even seen her. Maybe their eyes were still fixed on the gutter trailing beneath their broken shoes, on the sandwich-boarded back of the man in front.

  “Here, Dad,” said Georgia. “Be a sport. I want to borrow your robe and that beard.”

  The man unhooked his beard with great deliberation, revealing a pug-nosed, withered, sardonic old face.

  “What’s the idea, Mrs.?”

  “It’s a bet. A friend of mine betted me I wouldn’t walk in the sandwich-board parade.”

  “A bit of fun, eh? You mean, you’re out for a bit of fun, like?”

  “That’s it. I’ll pay for it.”

  “I thought, when you asked me, you wur one of them Mass Observers they writes about in papers.”

  “No. I’m just one of the mass-observed. Particularly so at the moment. What do they give you a day for this job.”

  “Half a crown, Mrs., and a snap at midday. You should see it. What they sweep oop from floor. Potage Maisong. And a ruddy sight more maisong than potage about it.”

  “I’ll give you a quid for the loan of that fancy-dress for an hour. Change places with you, see?”

  “Betcher life you will—and get me the sack too. I’ll ’ave nowt to do with it, Mrs.”

  “You’ll not get the sack. You hang about outside here. No, you’d better follow the parade. How far do they walk?”

  “As far as the Green Man, if we gets a chance. But I’m having nowt to do with it.”

  “Well, you can keep up with us that far, walk along the pavement behind us to make sure I don’t run off with your robe. And when we get there, we’ll slip out of sight a moment and change clothes again.”

  “Seems to me you’re daft, Mrs. Just like our Emmie. Always oop to soom daft notion.” The old man stared at her lugubriously. Then his wizened face suddenly underwent a convulsion and rearranged itself into a sly smile. “Tickle our Mum, this would,” he chuckled. “Aye, it would and all. Make it two quid.”

  “You’re a sport, Dad.”

  Georgia handed him the money. She put on the red, white-fur-trimmed robe over her own coat, and adjusted the hood. It came down to her feet, made her l
ook bulky and shapeless, but no harm in that. The old man punctiliously wiped the false beard on his sleeve before passing it to her. Spasms of chuckling shook him at intervals. Georgia tucked her bag inside the robe: it should be held up all right by the girdle, and its shape concealed under the sandwich-board.

  “Am I quite covered up now? No skirt showing?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Wouldn’t know you apart from myself. It’s a knock-out. Out you go, now. They’re just off.”

  Georgia went into the lobby and hoisted the sandwich-boards over her shoulders. The procession moved apathetically through the door, along a cobbled passage with grimy buildings towering on either side, and shambled into the main street—as dispirited-looking a set of Santa Claus as any one could hope to see. They certainly roused no interest in the pair of loafers who had been standing outside this alley for the last twenty-five minutes, on the look-out for a small, dark, hatless lady in a fur coat.

  Turning left, the procession passed in front of the great display-windows of Hallam and Appleby’s. Georgia could see at a glance that the store was in a state of siege: near every entrance a cluster of men had gathered: the E.B. was taking no chances. Her red sleeve, trimmed with fur that long usage had turned from snow-to-slush-colour, brushed against the young man in the pork-pie hat and ginger moustache. She heard him mutter to one of his associates, “We’ve got her cold now.”

  The words brought a kind of delayed claustrophobia over Georgia. While she had been inside the shop, she was too busy to think of anything except how she could get out. Now she saw herself in there, like a rabbit in a warren, every hole watched by the implacable hunters. Shambling along in the gutter, she kept her head bent; but her eyes glanced sideways, registering the appearance of the E.B. agents. She would be able to recognise them again. A certain purposeful, attentive air distinguished them from the crowds that idled restlessly about the plate-glass windows.