The Bravo of London

by Ernest Bramah

  ‘Since you mention it, whether I was thinking so or not, it certainly does have that appearance. If it comes to a sauve qui peut you fellows may get away but this connects me up past explaining.’

  ‘If it comes to a sauve qui peut, Nickle, you’ll admit that I should be a slow away-getter. For that reason I don’t go into this with the idea of it turning out wrong but in the conviction that it’s going to be stupendous. You’re a poor psychologist, Nickle, but never mind; we’ll get the letter back and wind up Anthony Dixson past all tracing.’

  While it was reasonably certain that Tilehurst would respond to ‘Dixson’s’ bait, while also the general progress of his doings could be plausibly assumed, there were crucial details on which it was vital to be exact, and arrangements had been made, and were successfully carried out, for following all his movements and for keeping the directing authority informed of each development. These headquarters were represented by a large closed motor car that had taken up a position in the lane which Tilehurst would probably choose if he cycled direct from his house to the station. But since ‘Brookcroft’ lay half a mile outside the village there were in fact two nearly equal routes and almost the last service of the intelligence section, after their man was seen to be committed to the journey, would be to signal by which approach he was to be expected. Nickle had made a choice of lanes but this at the best was only guesswork and the place had to be selected with an eye to the possibility of slipping round, via the station fork, into the other lane and taking up a position there if need be. In the event, this obligation did not arise. Blissfully unconscious of the fact that every step he took was being shadowed, Tilehurst trundled his bicycle out by the side gate of Brookcroft soon after two o’clock, called the overjoyed Nipper to follow, and after pausing to glance at his watch and light a cigarette, mounted and began to pedal unhurryingly towards the anticipated lane, with the easy thrust of a man who has just made a substantial meal and knows that he has plenty of time and to spare for his appointment. So far nothing could have been better.

  But at the moment when everything was going so well, there came one of those unforeseeable chances that reduce even the most circumspectly arranged plots to the significance of a mere toss-up.

  That grassy cut-across lane was deserted enough at any time and in the early afternoon of a hot summer day the chances were a good many to one against the risk of interruption. Yet as Tilehurst approached it, from the opposite direction appeared Sprout, the village constable, also a-wheel and bound for the same objective. He touched his hat as he turned into the lane and slackening his pace somewhat looked round to see if the other cyclist was following. With the easy social convention of the countryside (when out of doors) Tilehurst would in the ordinary course have caught him up and they would have progressed companionably wheel by wheel for as far as their way lay together, discussing the simpler aspects of Tapsfield existence. Then in a flash Tilehurst realised that Sprout would quite probably refer to Dixson—possibly to ask if he had been heard from since he had gone, or some equally inconvenient question. The predicament need not have been an embarrassing one, and, given minutes instead of seconds to make up his mind, the Joolby-Nickle plot might have very simply miscarried. But in that ambiguous period, the merest trice, allowed him for decision, Tilehurst only visualised the effect of prevaricating to Sprout about Dixson as they rode along and then—possibly under the policeman’s disapproving eyes—being greeted on the platform. In the circumstances he jumped at the easiest thing—he drifted past the lane with an amiable wave of recognition, pedalled slowly along until he had given the other man ample time to have gone well away, then turned and leisurely resumed his interrupted progress in the same direction.

  The roomy car now drawn up in the secluded lane had been converted to its purpose by bodily removing the inside seats, but with the blinds drawn against a blistering sun there was nothing in this to detract from its otherwise quite ordinary appearance. The spot it occupied had been picked with every consideration under review and though the available choice of road was not unlimited the place conformed well enough to the necessary conditions. It was in fact a short straight piece of ground with a bend at either end and a comparatively long straight piece of road stretching away from it in both directions. Thus, while screened itself until actually reached, anyone there could command the two approaches by walking the score or so of yards that comprised that section.

  In this almost sylvan retreat—a wood behind, in front meadows seen through a grille of hedge—the occupants of the car had decided to halt and picnic, and a real table-cloth spread on the grass by the roadside indicated the thoroughness of the occasion. This development had several effects: it enabled the road to be almost blocked and anyone who passed to be constrained into a desired channel, it explained the presence of as many people lolling about as were required for the venture, and, above all, it allowed the car and its party to remain in that not otherwise very explicable spot for hours if necessary without arousing a scintilla of suspicion.

  This was the carefully spread net that Geoffrey Tilehurst approached after he had given P.C. Sprout—his one chance of escape—ample time to get clear of participation. He almost tumbled upon the guileless tableau: the drawn-up car, the two men and the girl talking and laughing around the ‘table’, the third man—and this reduced his leisured pace still more for it was questionable which side he must pass on—the third man moving about what was left open of the roadway. Then this man appeared suddenly to realise his presence, for instead of standing aside he remained obstructively where he was, interrogation in his poise, and Tilehurst understood that he wanted to stop him.

  The motor ‘bandit’ had not yet arrived and there was no more on the surface of the incident than if you or I had been asked for a match in Piccadilly. The cyclist obligingly pulled up (indeed, by that time he had no option), dropped one foot to the ground and waited for the inquiry.

  ‘I say, I’m awfully sorry to trouble you like this but we haven’t the murkiest idea of where we’ve got to. Do you mind telling me where we really are?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ came a feminine voice from the other side the car. ‘Do get to know, Tommy. It’s about time we pushed off if we’re to do any bathing.’

  Tilehurst was one of those amiable creatures who find an altruistic pleasure in performing these small services—telling the time and the way, guiding a blind beggar across the road, recovering a lost ball, making up the penny deficiency in the bus fare for old ladies who have somehow miscalculated their resources. If he gave a thought to the one weakness of the contrivance—for why had they not asked Sprout, that obvious official fount of information?—he at once dismissed it as capable of some very simple explanation.

  ‘Well, it’s about a mile and a half to Tapsfield along the lane,’ he replied, turning to nod in the required direction. ‘The way I’m going will bring you to the cross-road near Stanbury Junction and on to Crowgate or Slowcumber according to which you take. Or, of course, back to Tapsfield if you turn sharp at the Dog and Plover.’

  ‘Ask him—ask him where we are,’ chimed in the girl’s voice again. ‘I don’t know that we’re actually pining to get to any of those earthly paradises he’s mentioned.’

  The spokesman smiled apologetically. ‘You see what it is,’ said the look, establishing the male understanding. Then aloud: ‘I wish you’d just pick out the place on the map for us; I’ve got one here quite handy.’ Without waiting for the implied assent he opened the near door of the car and disappeared within, reappearing a moment later with a large road map that he spread out, but remaining just inside the car himself so that it became necessary for Tilehurst to go nearer.

  One of the other men had meanwhile strolled round and the way was still barred—to use so harsh a term about so fortuitous a happening—against escape in that direction. And now the last man in sight got up from the sward, apparently taking a handkerchief from his pocket to brush stray crumbs away, and casually passing round the car
on the unguarded side closed the trap at its final outlet. Still every face had the conventional, agreeable air of those who are being obliged, the girl just across the road began to carol a little popular snatch lightly, and ‘Tommy’, at the car step, following the line of his own finger was murmuring: ‘Now let me see; we are—where?’ as he travelled halfway across the county waiting for the obliging stranger to inform him.

  Tilehurst knew that he had plenty of time to the good and he did exactly what had been foreseen he would do. In any case the result would have been the same then, although the details might not have dovetailed quite so workmanly. He swung himself wholly out of his bicycle, propped up the machine against the car wheel and turned to the open door to point out the position on the map now held out towards him. The man with the handkerchief was immediately behind, intending seemingly to look on as well. The third man … The map was a large limp sheet and Tilehurst was constrained to put out both hands to receive it.

  What actually happened he never quite knew himself, for the universe of conscious thought rushed to extinction at one unbearably crowded point and afterwards everything to do with that episode was dim and tangled. But in the other participants’ sight it was far from being confused, for every detail had been carefully considered and rehearsed and each one did his part in perfect time and precision. ‘Tommy’, holding out the map, closed with a rat-trap grip on the wrists of the two hands coming towards him; the saturated cloth was pressed against Tilehurst’s nose and mouth; the other man, practising the simple schoolboy stroke, brought their victim to his knees on the running-board, as helpless as a ditched wether among the three men crowding round him. The girl continued to sing about love and undying devotion. In fifteen seconds the anaesthetic had done its work and the inert body was cleanly lifted into the car, to be stripped, reclothed, bound, gagged and left, covered with rugs, unconscious on the floor. It would scarcely be too much to say that people might have gone by without noticing that anything unusual was happening.

  Three minutes later an identical Tilehurst emerged from the car; the others paused in their orderly work—they were removing every tell-tale trace and preparing for return—to inspect him critically.

  ‘Oh, boy, but you sure look some!’ was drawn from one in frank approval. ‘Now that you’re in his togs the guy’s own mother wouldn’t suspish you.’

  It was possible indeed, but there was one small faithful friend who was not to be duped by clothes or outward appearance. Nipper, having taken the opportunity of his master’s inattention to engage in a private rat hunt along a drain, had voluntarily returned, and after puzzling over the situation unnoticed from several points of view, had abruptly decided that there was dirty work afoot and this spuriosity the villain. Uttering foolishly futile yaps of challenge—his sure undoing—Nipper heroically launched himself against the foe, only to be met by a straight deliberate kick that sent him reeling. Before the little dog could collect himself again Vallett had snatched up the readiest tool—a weighty spanner—and with a single vicious blow had settled all Nipper’s doubt and questionings for ever. Four white upraised paws quivered protestingly to heaven, the body shuddered, and a dead dog with a battered skull lay on the reddening herbage. In that moment one seemed to have a glimpse of the cool and desperate convict who had got away from Dartmoor, despite warders’ loaded guns, in place of the smiling Vallett.

  ‘Damn you, you brute! Why need you go and do that?’ shrilled the girl, suddenly whirled into a flimsy passion. ‘I’d have taken the little dog and looked after it myself—I’d have loved to … Bloody fine thing being able to out a great big beast like him, I should think … bloody well proud of yourself, aren’t you?’ For quite half a minute she slanged aimlessly on while the others looked at her with no more than grave disapproval. To tell the truth, the unforeseen tragedy of the loyal little terrier had got them all more than anything that had gone before.

  ‘That’ll do, kid; shut up your face now, you’ve shed plenty,’ said one of the men with brusque understanding. ‘Vallett did quite right; the pup was bound to go and that’s all that’s to it. Rip off the collar, Pips, and shove the rest under some stuff in the wood there.’

  ‘Yes, but what’n they find it there?’ questioned the man who had used the drug, as he carefully handled the body. ‘These country birds know all the dogs for miles around so shifting the collar won’t help any.’

  ‘What the hell then? It’s all of a piece, isn’t it? Besides, they most likely won’t—get it well away into a thick scrub and it’ll likely be there for months before that happens. Now, buddy,’—this to Vallett—‘Number two’s coming in and he’ll go on and give Soapy the nod and then pass it back on you when Soapy’s planted. We’re through here?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Vallett, who had apparently been dreaming. ‘I feel that I ought to carry some marks. The artistic sense demands it. Put me one fairly high—you needn’t black an eye or tap the claret—but something that’ll show a bruise for the next few days anyhow.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Didn’t I speak?’ inquired Vallett politely. The other smiled a dour aside and with a clean crisp right laid the artistic conscience sprawling on the level. He got up with no loss of graciousness, dusting his clothes, but on second thoughts left them as they were, to infer the happening.

  ‘Oh my God!’ wailed the girl, looking on with tightly clasped hands. Vallett didn’t deign to notice.

  ‘Satisfied?’ grinned the big man.

  ‘That will do for that, I expect, but I think I ought to show some scratches.’ Going to the hedge he selected and hacked out a bramble switch and brought it back; its curved thorns were as formidable as a wild cat’s claws. ‘Put that across my face, will you?’

  ‘Don’t!’ This time the kid rose to a scream of anguish. ‘I take it all back about the dog. He had to go, I see. Only don’t—’

  ‘You?’ cut in Vallett with elegant disdain. ‘What in all creation have you got to do with it?’

  ‘I know well enough,’ she blubbered. ‘You think you’re paying me out—’

  ‘Get on with it,’ said Vallett curtly. ‘Shut your eyes then,’ advised the other, taking the switch, and this time he was not grinning. ‘I don’t want to go and blind you.’

  ‘Keep your own open and then you won’t,’ was the unconcerned reply. ‘I have nothing to shut mine for.’

  ‘Look out then.’ The cane slashed across mouth and cheeks and a dozen points of blood followed the thorns’ withdrawal. Vallett forbore to wince. The girl ran back to the car making curious noises.

  CHAPTER VII

  DR OLIVANT ESTABLISHES HIS BONA FIDES

  AT about the hour when an unobtrusive motor car (its number plate varied for the third time that eventful day) was taking its turn through Reigate, with Mr Geoffrey Tilehurst—now sufficiently recovered to feel extremely sick—a very helpless passenger, and while in Hoggets Lane Mr Vallett was, to use a peculiarly inappropriate metaphor, ‘cooling his heels’ as he awaited an agreed signal, the sun went off the rose bed in the Brookcroft trim front garden and Miss Tilehurst, armed with leather gloves, sheep shears and a Sussex trug, came out to carry on the unending warfare that exists between man (as represented in the amateur gardener) and relentless nature.

  ‘Yes, of course; just as might have been expected,’ she declared after scrutinising the roses. ‘Teeming with greenfly—and our rates are seven-and-sixpence in the pound! Ophelia!’

  It is, to be sure, impossible to predict what lines of growth a child will take from the evidence of, say, the first seven days, and there have been Ophelias and Ophelias. This one, the offspring of an ill-assorted union between a pig higgler and an idealistic lady’s maid, clearly belonged to the second variety. Other mistresses—and the girl had experienced a remarkable succession of these before Miss Tilehurst penetratingly discovered in her certain solid qualities (in the sense of ‘dense’ to most employers) that covered many shortcomings—other mistresses had invariably c
alled her by what they considered more suitable names, generally Jane or Sarah, without reference to her own feelings. Penelope Tilehurst questioned whether this was ‘quite right’ and on the other interested party’s vague justification that ‘some thought one thing and some another’, severely retorted that this was not the point and that in any case Ophelia—with appropriate instances—was nothing to be ashamed of.

  Ophelia had a way of anticipating wants when she was called. If right, she had discovered that this was regarded as rather clever, but if it happened to be wrong there was no doubt that she was being very stupid. Privately, she thought that a simpler average should be struck, but anyway she was like that, she admitted. She now appeared carrying a filled watering can and, as this happened to be right, she felt that she had established her position sufficiently to remain and sociably discuss botanical prospects.

  ‘That Mrs Buffy I was with was a rare ’un for gardening too,’ she remarked as a general opening. ‘Only she was all for snapdragers. Funny she shouldn’t know their proper name, wasn’t it, mum? She always used to call them Auntie Rhinos.’

  ‘Yes, Ophelia, but I shall want several more cans to go on this bed,’ replied Miss Tilehurst discouragingly. ‘You had better get the other one out as well and keep bringing them.’

  ‘That I will, mum.’ Hard work had no terror for the simple girl, especially when, as in the present case, it involved nothing with a tendency to ‘just come apart’ and contained easy openings for agreeable conversation. ‘Oh; what had we better say if they catch us at it?’

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded Miss Tilehurst sharply. ‘What do you mean, Ophelia?’