“You needn’t, Andy,” she said, with one of her delightful dimpling smiles. “I was only joking. I didn’t really spend much, and I’ve got quite a lot in the bank.”
“I know, dear,” he replied. “I wasn’t such a mug as to take you seriously. But still, I think I may as well take those things up to Monty. It’s no use keeping stuff in the studio cupboard. I think I will go up one day next week, probably Tuesday.”
She made no comment on this proposal, and their talk drifted into other channels. After tea she produced the two hats—the principal spoils of the raid—and exhibited them to Andrew; who looked at them as Lord Dundreary looked at the chimpanzee, with surprise and incomprehension. (The feminine hat is usually outside the scope of the masculine intellect, and the hats of that period were beyond belief as things intentionally created.) Then Molly went about her lawful domestic occasions, and Andrew sneaked out to drop his letter into the post-box down in the village. It was a harmless letter, devoid of significance and committing him to nothing. Yet, as he held it in the slit of the post-box, he felt an unaccountable reluctance to let it go; and when at length he released it and heard it fall to the bottom of the box, he had the sense of having done something portentous and irrevocable.
CHAPTER II
Alarums and Excursions
The days that followed slipped by slowly and wearily, charged for Andrew with anxiety and unhappiness. Unhappiness because he had, for the first time in his married life, a secret which he was withholding from Molly. And in his heart he felt that it was a discreditable secret, of which he would be ashamed if it should ever leak out. This was the chief occasion of his anxiety. For there was the chance that something might upset his plan; and, if it did, he would have to explain. But what could he say? To Molly it would appear as if he distrusted her, and who could say that she would be wrong? Was there not some distrust implied in his repugnance to her meeting Ronald? It was a dreadful thing to think of, for, hitherto, the most perfect confidence had existed between him and his wife; and no woman could be more irreproachable in her conduct than Molly.
Still he went on making the few preparations that were necessary. From his bank at Bunsford he drew out fifty pounds in cash (paying in an equivalent cheque on his London bank) in case Ronald should be unable to deal with a cheque; and, to meet the alternative case, he drew a cheque on the London account to the order of Ronald Barton, Esq., and put it in the attache case that he kept in the studio cupboard. Then, with great care, he drafted the letter which he proposed to send to Ronald. He dated it the 26th of August—Sunday—though, in fact, he proposed to post it early on Monday, so that it should be delivered on Monday evening or by the first post on Tuesday morning—in either case in time to prevent Ronald from coming, but not in time to allow of a reply. It was but a short letter, and, in its final form, ran thus:
“Willow Cottage, Fairfield.
“26th August, 1928.
“My dear Ronald,
It happens by a fortunate chance that I have to run over to Crompton on business. I say ‘fortunate’ because we shall have certain matters of a rather private nature to discuss and we can do that better in your rooms than here.
“I don’t know quite how long my business will take, but I shall turn up at your diggings punctually at one o’clock, when we may, perhaps, go somewhere and get some lunch, before beginning our discussions.
“Yours ever,
“ANDREW.”
It was not without some qualms that he concocted this mendacious epistle, and when he had finished it and addressed and stamped the envelope, he hid it away securely in the attache case until the time should come for posting it. Finally, into the same receptacle he put one or two small and trivial paintings-little more than sketches-which he had hardly thought worth offering to his dealer. Of course, he was not going to offer them now. Their presence in the attache case was merely a concession to sentiment. He didn’t want to tell more lies than were absolutely necessary.
Now that he had made all his preparations, it would have seemed reasonable for him to dismiss the matter from his mind until the time for action should arrive. But this he was quite unable to do. The emotional upset, which was at the root of the whole rather foolish business, kept his mind unsettled and exaggerated the effect of his guilty consciousness of his secret and his anxiety lest some unforeseen hitch should occur. The result was that he found himself everlastingly revolving the details of his plan, considering what he should say to Ronald and what he should do if, by any disastrous chance, his scheme should miscarry and his deception should become known to Molly.
In order to be alone and free to think his futile thoughts, he spent much of his time in the studio. He tried to work. He had a rather important picture well started, and, in his normal state of mind, it would have been easy and pleasant to carry on. But after a single attempt he had to desist for fear of spoiling what he had already done.
In the evenings, his restlessness and a curious shyness of his wife’s society drove him out to stride impatiently across the fields or along the little-frequented road, chewing the cud of useless and purposeless reflection. He had better have stayed at home and listened to Molly’s cheerful gossip, for thereby he would have avoided a world of trouble. But no man can foresee the little surprises that Fate has in store for him; and so it was that Andrew, taking his way along the darkening road, walked straight into the ambush that chance had prepared.
The week had nearly run out, for it was the Monday evening, the evening before the appointed day of his visit to Crompton, when he set forth in his old studio jacket, hatless and unadorned by the spectacles that he wore in more populous places to mitigate the effects of his disfigurement, to tramp along the road and think out once again the details of his proceedings on the morrow. He had posted his letter to Ronald in time for the eleven o’clock collection and everything was ready for his journey. By this time tomorrow, he thought, his difficulties would be over. He would have paid out the money, have disposed of his wastrel cousin and would be free to take up again the normal course of his life.
Thus preoccupied he swung along, taking little note of his surroundings. At long intervals the head-lights of an approaching ear started out of the gathering gloom, glared on him for a moment and were gone; or overtaking him, cast his attenuated shadow along the lighted surface of the road with increasing intensity until it culminated in an instant of dazzle, a whizz, a hum of mechanism and a dwindling red light fading into the darkness.
It was at the cross roads, known locally as Kibble’s Cross, that the incredible affair happened. Preoccupied as he was, a stationary car drawn up at the corner of the side road made little impression on him, though he saw it and could hear the engine running, and was dimly aware of two men lurking near the car. But wrapped in his own thoughts, he gave them but a passing, inattentive glance and straightway forgot their existence. A few moments later, a bright light streamed past him from behind, then a car came abreast of him and drew up abruptly with a shriek of the brakes and an irritable voice demanded: “Well, what is it?”
Andrew gazed in astonishment at the speaker—a hard-faced elderly man who appeared to be addressing him—and stepped up to the open window to ask what he meant. As he put his head in at the window, the light of an electric torch flashed full in his face; but in spite of the dazzling light he could see that the man had his other hand thrust into his hip pocket. He could also see a middle-aged woman grasping the driving wheel and staring at him with an expression of consternation. He was about to put his question—in fact he had begun to speak—when he felt both his wrists seized in a vice-like grip and held together behind his back. Simultaneously, a hand grasping a pistol was thrust over his shoulder and a voice from behind him commanded: “Put ’em up. Both of you.”
Exactly what happened during the next few seconds Andrew never clearly knew. As he felt his wrists grasped, he struggled to turn round and became aware of two men whose faces were hidden by black masks. At the same
moment, the man in the car made a quick movement with his farther hand. An instant later there was a double report with the sound of shattering glass; a piercing scream from the woman, a grinding noise from the engine, and the car leaped forward. In another moment it had gathered speed and was receding swiftly into the darkness. As the reports rang out, Andrew felt his wrists released, and, turning quickly, he saw the two men running furiously towards their car and heard a whimpering voice exclaim: “You blasted fool! Couldn’t you see it was the wrong man? And you’ve done him in.”
Andrew stood, bewildered and half-stupefied, looking at the retreating bandits. They were still talking excitedly but he could not hear what they were saying. Soon, they reached their car, tumbled in hurriedly and slammed the door. Again, there was a grinding sound; the car started forward, turned up the side road, and was quickly lost to sight between the hedgerows. The hum of the engine, soon died away and Andrew was left standing alone in the silence of the deserted road.
He tried to collect his scattered wits and to realize what had happened. It was an astounding affair. The audacity of these ruffians in attempting a highway robbery in the presence of a witness seemed amazing. Yet, but for the circumstance that the passenger in the car had been armed, it might easily have been done. The presence of an unarmed stranger would have offered no hindrance to two armed and masked men.
But what had really happened? Was it true that that stern-faced elderly man had been “done in,” or was this only a frightened man’s conjecture? Almost certainly the latter, for there had been no time to ascertain the effects of the shot. Perhaps there was no harm done, after all, beyond the smashing of the wind-screen. Meanwhile, the question arose as to what he ought to do. At first he was disposed to hurry back to Fairfield and give information to the police; but on reflection, that seemed a futile thing to do, for, long before he could reach the village, the woman who was driving the car would have reported the outrage to the police at the next town. Moreover, there was no police station at Fairfield and only a police patrol who was sent out to the village from Bunsford. Finally, he decided to notify the police at Bunsford on the morrow, though even that would be of little use, seeing that he would be totally unable to identify either of the men or give any description of them.
While he had been turning these questions over in his mind, he had been retracing his steps along the road; for the shock that he had sustained had effectually diverted his thoughts from his domestic troubles and the solitary countryside ceased to attract him. Presently he came to a stile at the entrance to a foot-path which led in a nearly straight line to the village. Here he paused for a few moments and looked back along the road. In the far distance the head-lights of a car appeared as bright sparks of light on the dark background. He watched them, as he stood with one foot on the lower step of the stile, with a feeling of faint dislike. At the moment, the idea of a motor-car seemed to have unpleasant associations. After looking for a few seconds at the distant lights, which grew brighter as he looked, he mounted the stile, and, stepping down on to the foot-path, set forth on the short cut across the fields.
There was no lack of matter for conversation with Molly that night. As he poured out the thrilling story of his adventure, she almost lost interest in the hat, on which she was performing some kind of minor operation, in the wonder and horror of the tale. “But what impudence and bravado!” she exclaimed. “They seem to have gone on just as if you hadn’t been there.”
“I shouldn’t have been much good in any case,” said Andrew. “They were probably both armed. At any rate one of them was, and he was pretty ready with his pistol.”
“Yes,” said she, “I am glad you weren’t able to interfere. You might have been lying dead at this moment. I wonder if that poor man in the car was really killed.”
“I hope not,” said Andrew, “but I am afraid he was hit. He could hardly fail to have been seeing that the muzzle of the pistol was within a foot of him. I suppose I had better drop in tomorrow morning at the police station at Bunsford and give my name and address in case they want to call me as a witness.”
Molly laid down her work and looked at him anxiously. “Do you know, Andy,” she said, “I don’t think I would if I were you. Why say anything about it to anybody? You have got nothing to tell that would help the police. You wouldn’t know the men again if you saw them. It is a horrible affair. There may have been murder done. Don’t you think it would be better for you to keep right out of it? Nobody knows that you were there, and nobody need ever know.”
“The woman in the car saw me, you know,” said Andrew.
“Yes,” retorted Molly, whisking about with that mental agility which is the peculiar gift of woman, “and she probably took you for one of the gang. And if she did, she will swear through thick and thin that you were. You know how positive women are when they have got an idea into their heads.”
He did—Molly, herself, having contributed some striking instances; and he realized that she had put her finger on the one possible complication. Nevertheless, he did not like the idea of lying low when it was certain that inquiries would presently be made. “Well,” she urged, when he pointed this out, “wait till they are made, and see what sort of inquiries they are. If the police advertise for the witness who saw the attack, you can come forward. In the meantime, keep your own counsel; and don’t go out of the house without your spectacles.”
The serious view that she took of the matter tended to transfer itself to him, though the conclusion of their talk still left the question unsettled in his mind. But as to the wisdom of her advice in regard to the spectacles he had no doubt. Until he announced himself, he had better remain unrecognized. And the spectacles were a very efficient disguise, having, in fact, been designed expressly for that purpose. The horn rims enclosed lenses which were virtually plain glass, to offer the least possible obstruction to Andrew’s excellent vision. The part of them which really functioned was the bridge; which was provided with a broad, saddle-shaped guard of flesh-coloured celluloid which occupied the hollow where the bridge of the nose should have been, and, to a great extent, concealed the deficiency. He almost invariably wore them out of doors; and it was due only to the failing light and his mentally disturbed state that he had gone out this evening without them.
The morning found him still undecided as to what he should do, though Molly renewed her admonitions during breakfast. But now the unpleasant business that he had in hand once more began to occupy his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. The guilty consciousness of the deception that he was practising on his wife worried him intensely and made him impatient to be gone. Immediately after breakfast, he fetched his attache case-packed in readiness on the previous day-from the studio, put on his spectacles and made ready to depart. “I suppose, dear,” said Molly, as she accompanied him to the outer door and gave him a farewell kiss, “you won’t be very late home tonight?”
“I don’t expect to be,” he replied. “Still, you had better not stay up if I am not home by about ten.”
With this he kissed her again, and, turning away, strode briskly down the path. At the gate he looked back and waved his hand. Then he started at a good pace towards the station, with a sense of relief at having got so far without a mishap. Only a few hours more, now, and he would be clear of his worries and would be his own man again. And once again as he swung along, he debated whether he should or should not call at Bunsford police station.
But the question was decided for him by circumstance. As the train on the little branch line from Fairfield drew up in Bunsford Station, he found that a train from London to Crompton was signalled and already in sight down the line. It was a full three-quarters of an hour earlier than the one that he had intended to travel by and would bring him to Crompton that much before his time. Nevertheless, in his impatience to get clear of his own neighbourhood, he welcomed it, and hurried across to the booking office. A couple of minutes later, the train drew up at the platform. It was only moderate
ly full and he was able to secure a first-class smoking compartment to himself. While the train lingered in the station, he peered out anxiously, but no one came to disturb the solitude for which he yearned. At length, the guard’s whistle sounded and the train began to move.
He heaved a deep sigh of relief, and as the train gathered speed he proceeded deliberately to fill his pipe. Then he took out Ronald’s letter from his letter-case, read it through slowly from the address to the signature and tore it into minute fragments, which he allowed to flutter out of the window. Then he opened his attache case and carefully checked its contents; and when he had done this, he leaned back, relighted his pipe and once more began to revolve in his mind the problem of how he should deal with Ronald.
The money question did not trouble him appreciably. He had in the attache case, in two blank envelopes, a cheque for fifty pounds drawn to Ronald’s order and a bundle of fifty pound notes. He took it for granted that one of those two envelopes would be transferred to Ronald—preferably the cheque; or, if it had to be the notes, he would tear up the cheque and cancel the counterfoil. That was all plain sailing, and, though it irked him to pour his earnings into the bottomless pocket of this worthless spendthrift, he would accept the loss with resignation. The real problem was how to keep Ronald away from Fairfield. Supposing that even after the money had been paid, he should persist in his intention of making the visit? What was to be done? Could Andrew tell him bluntly that his presence would not be acceptable? It would be very uncomfortable. And even so, Ronald was uncommonly thick-skinned.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 165
