CHAPTER X

The Advantages of an Air Raid

The train was abominably late. It was due at eight-twenty-seven, but it

was nearly ten when we reached St Pancras. I had resolved to go

straight to my rooms in Westminster, buying on the way a cap and

waterproof to conceal my uniform should anyone be near my door on my

arrival. Then I would ring up Blenkiron and tell him all my adventures.

I breakfasted at a coffee-stall, left my pack and rifle in the

cloak-room, and walked out into the clear sunny morning.

I was feeling very pleased with myself. Looking back on my madcap

journey, I seemed to have had an amazing run of luck and to be entitled

to a little credit too. I told myself that persistence always pays and

that nobody is beaten till he is dead. All Blenkiron’s instructions had

been faithfully carried out. I had found Ivery’s post office. I had

laid the lines of our own special communications with the enemy, and so

far as I could see I had left no clue behind me. Ivery and Gresson took

me for a well-meaning nincompoop. It was true that I had aroused

profound suspicion in the breasts of the Scottish police. But that

mattered nothing, for Cornelius Brand, the suspect, would presently

disappear, and there was nothing against that rising soldier,

Brigadier-General Richard Hannay, who would soon be on his way to

France. After all this piece of service had not been so very

unpleasant. I laughed when I remembered my grim forebodings in

Gloucestershire. Bullivant had said it would be damnably risky in the

long run, but here was the end and I had never been in danger of

anything worse than making a fool of myself.

I remember that, as I made my way through Bloomsbury, I was not

thinking so much of my triumphant report to Blenkiron as of my speedy

return to the Front. Soon I would be with my beloved brigade again. I

had missed Messines and the first part of Third Ypres, but the battle

was still going on, and I had yet a chance. I might get a division, for

there had been talk of that before I left. I knew the Army Commander

thought a lot of me. But on the whole I hoped I would be left with the

brigade. After all I was an amateur soldier, and I wasn’t certain of my

powers with a bigger command.

In Charing Cross Road I thought of Mary, and the brigade seemed

suddenly less attractive. I hoped the war wouldn’t last much longer,

though with Russia heading straight for the devil I didn’t know how it

was going to stop very soon. I was determined to see Mary before I

left, and I had a good excuse, for I had taken my orders from her. The

prospect entranced me, and I was mooning along in a happy dream, when I

collided violently with an agitated citizen.

Then I realised that something very odd was happening.

There was a dull sound like the popping of the corks of flat soda-water

bottles. There was a humming, too, from very far up in the skies.

People in the street were either staring at the heavens or running

wildly for shelter. A motor-bus in front of me emptied its contents in

a twinkling; a taxi pulled up with a jar and the driver and fare dived

into a second-hand bookshop. It took me a moment or two to realise the

meaning of it all, and I had scarcely done this when I got a very

practical proof. A hundred yards away a bomb fell on a street island,

shivering every window-pane in a wide radius, and sending splinters of

stone flying about my head. I did what I had done a hundred times

before at the Front, and dropped flat on my face.

The man who says he doesn’t mind being bombed or shelled is either a

liar or a maniac. This London air raid seemed to me a singularly

unpleasant business. I think it was the sight of the decent civilised

life around one and the orderly streets, for what was perfectly natural

in a rubble-heap like Ypres or Arras seemed an outrage here. I remember

once being in billets in a Flanders village where I had the Maire’s

house and sat in a room upholstered in cut velvet, with wax flowers on

the mantelpiece and oil paintings of three generations on the walls.

The Boche took it into his head to shell the place with a long-range

naval gun, and I simply loathed it. It was horrible to have dust and

splinters blown into that snug, homely room, whereas if I had been in a

ruined barn I wouldn’t have given the thing two thoughts. In the same

way bombs dropping in central London seemed a grotesque indecency. I

hated to see plump citizens with wild eyes, and nursemaids with scared

children, and miserable women scuttling like rabbits in a warren.

The drone grew louder, and, looking up, I could see the enemy planes

flying in a beautiful formation, very leisurely as it seemed, with all

London at their mercy. Another bomb fell to the right, and presently

bits of our own shrapnel were clattering viciously around me. I thought

it about time to take cover, and ran shamelessly for the best place I

could see, which was a Tube station. Five minutes before the street had

been crowded; now I left behind me a desert dotted with one bus and

three empty taxicabs.

I found the Tube entrance filled with excited humanity. One stout lady

had fainted, and a nurse had become hysterical, but on the whole people

were behaving well. Oddly enough they did not seem inclined to go down

the stairs to the complete security of underground; but preferred

rather to collect where they could still get a glimpse of the upper

world, as if they were torn between fear of their lives and interest in

the spectacle. That crowd gave me a good deal of respect for my

countrymen. But several were badly rattled, and one man a little way

off, whose back was turned, kept twitching his shoulders as if he had

the colic.

I watched him curiously, and a movement of the crowd brought his face

into profile. Then I gasped with amazement, for I saw that it was

Ivery.

And yet it was not Ivery. There were the familiar nondescript features,

the blandness, the plumpness, but all, so to speak, in ruins. The man

was in a blind funk. His features seemed to be dislimning before my

eyes. He was growing sharper, finer, in a way younger, a man without

grip on himself, a shapeless creature in process of transformation. He

was being reduced to his rudiments. Under the spell of panic he was

becoming a new man.

And the crazy thing was that I knew the new man better than the old.

My hands were jammed close to my sides by the crowd; I could scarcely

turn my head, and it was not the occasion for one’s neighbours to

observe one’s expression. If it had been, mine must have been a study.

My mind was far away from air raids, back in the hot summer weather of

1914. I saw a row of villas perched on a headland above the sea. In the

garden of one of them two men were playing tennis, while I was

crouching behind an adjacent bush. One of these was a plump young man

who wore a coloured scarf round his waist and babbled of golf

handicaps.... I saw him again in the villa dining-room, wearing a

dinner-jacket, and lisping a little.... I sat opposite him at bridge, I

beheld him collared by two of Macgillivray’s men, when his comrade had

rushed for the thirty-nine steps that led to the sea.... I saw, too,

the sitting-room of my old flat in Portland Place and heard little

Scudder’s quick, anxious voice talking about the three men he feared

most on earth, one of whom lisped in his speech. I had thought that all

three had long ago been laid under the turf....

He was not looking my way, and I could devour his face in safety. There

was no shadow of doubt. I had always put him down as the most amazing

actor on earth, for had he not played the part of the First Sea Lord

and deluded that officer’s daily colleagues? But he could do far more

than any human actor, for he could take on a new personality and with

it a new appearance, and live steadily in the character as if he had

been born in it.... My mind was a blank, and I could only make blind

gropings at conclusions.... How had he escaped the death of a spy and a

murderer, for I had last seen him in the hands of justice?... Of course

he had known me from the first day in Biggleswick.... I had thought to

play with him, and he had played most cunningly and damnably with me.

In that sweating sardine-tin of refugees I shivered in the bitterness

of my chagrin.

And then I found his face turned to mine, and I knew that he recognised

me. More, I knew that he knew that I had recognised him—not as Ivery,

but as that other man. There came into his eyes a curious look of

comprehension, which for a moment overcame his funk.

I had sense enough to see that that put the final lid on it. There was

still something doing if he believed that I was blind, but if he once

thought that I knew the truth he would be through our meshes and

disappear like a fog.

My first thought was to get at him and collar him and summon everybody

to help me by denouncing him for what he was. Then I saw that that was

impossible. I was a private soldier in a borrowed uniform, and he could

easily turn the story against me. I must use surer weapons. I must get

to Bullivant and Macgillivray and set their big machine to work. Above

all I must get to Blenkiron.

I started to squeeze out of that push, for air raids now seemed far too

trivial to give a thought to. Moreover the guns had stopped, but so

sheeplike is human nature that the crowd still hung together, and it

took me a good fifteen minutes to edge my way to the open air. I found

that the trouble was over, and the street had resumed its usual

appearance. Buses and taxis were running, and voluble knots of people

were recounting their experiences. I started off for Blenkiron’s

bookshop, as the nearest harbour of refuge.

But in Piccadilly Circus I was stopped by a military policeman. He

asked my name and battalion, and I gave him them, while his suspicious

eye ran over my figure. I had no pack or rifle, and the crush in the

Tube station had not improved my appearance. I explained that I was

going back to France that evening, and he asked for my warrant. I fancy

my preoccupation made me nervous and I lied badly. I said I had left it

with my kit in the house of my married sister, but I fumbled in giving

the address. I could see that the fellow did not believe a word of it.

Just then up came an A.P.M. He was a pompous dug-out, very splendid in

his red tabs and probably bucked up at having just been under fire.

Anyhow he was out to walk in the strict path of duty.

“Tomkins!” he said. “Tomkins! We’ve got some fellow of that name on our

records. Bring him along, Wilson.”

“But, sir,” I said, “I must—I simply must meet my friend. It’s urgent

business, and I assure you I’m all right. If you don’t believe me, I’ll

take a taxi and we’ll go down to Scotland Yard and I’ll stand by what

they say.”

His brow grew dark with wrath. “What infernal nonsense is this?

Scotland Yard! What the devil has Scotland Yard to do with it? You’re

an imposter. I can see it in your face. I’ll have your depot rung up,

and you’ll be in jail in a couple of hours. I know a deserter when I

see him. Bring him along, Wilson. You know what to do if he tries to

bolt.”

I had a momentary thought of breaking away, but decided that the odds

were too much against me. Fuming with impatience, I followed the A.P.M.

to his office on the first floor in a side street. The precious minutes

were slipping past; Ivery, now thoroughly warned, was making good his

escape; and I, the sole repository of a deadly secret, was tramping in

this absurd procession.

The A.P.M. issued his orders. He gave instructions that my depot should

be rung up, and he bade Wilson remove me to what he called the

guard-room. He sat down at his desk, and busied himself with a mass of

buff dockets.

In desperation I renewed my appeal. “I implore you to telephone to Mr

Macgillivray at Scotland Yard. It’s a matter of life and death, Sir.

You’re taking a very big responsibility if you don’t.”

I had hopelessly offended his brittle dignity. “Any more of your

insolence and I’ll have you put in irons. I’ll attend to you soon

enough for your comfort. Get out of this till I send for you.”

As I looked at his foolish, irritable face I realised that I was fairly

UP against it. Short of assault and battery on everybody I was bound to

submit. I saluted respectfully and was marched away.

The hours I spent in that bare anteroom are like a nightmare in my

recollection. A sergeant was busy at a desk with more buff dockets and

an orderly waited on a stool by a telephone. I looked at my watch and

observed that it was one o’clock. Soon the slamming of a door announced

that the A.P.M. had gone to lunch. I tried conversation with the fat

sergeant, but he very soon shut me up. So I sat hunched up on the

wooden form and chewed the cud of my vexation.

I thought with bitterness of the satisfaction which had filled me in

the morning. I had fancied myself the devil of a fine fellow, and I had

been no more than a mountebank. The adventures of the past days seemed

merely childish. I had been telling lies and cutting capers over half

Britain, thinking I was playing a deep game, and I had only been

behaving like a schoolboy. On such occasions a man is rarely just to

himself, and the intensity of my self-abasement would have satisfied my

worst enemy. It didn’t console me that the futility of it all was not

my blame. I was looking for excuses. It was the facts that cried out

against me, and on the facts I had been an idiotic failure.

For of course Ivery had played with me, played with me since the first

day at Biggleswick. He had applauded my speeches and flattered me, and

advised me to go to the Clyde, laughing at me all the time. Gresson,

too, had known. Now I saw it all. He had tried to drown me between

Colonsay and Mull. It was Gresson who had set the police on me in

Morvern. The bagman Linklater had been one of Gresson’s creatures. The

only meagre consolation was that the gang had thought me dangerous

enough to attempt to murder me, and that they knew nothing about my

doings in Skye. Of that I was positive. They had marked me down, but

for several days I had slipped clean out of their ken.

As I went over all the incidents, I asked if everything was yet lost. I

had failed to hoodwink Ivery, but I had found out his post office, and

if he only believed I hadn’t recognised him for the miscreant of the

Black Stone he would go on in his old ways and play into Blenkiron’s

hands. Yes, but I had seen him in undress, so to speak, and he knew

that I had so seen him. The only thing now was to collar him before he

left the country, for there was ample evidence to hang him on. The law

must stretch out its long arm and collect him and Gresson and the

Portuguese Jew, try them by court martial, and put them decently

underground.

But he had now had more than an hour’s warning, and I was entangled

with red-tape in this damned A.P.M.”s office. The thought drove me

frantic, and I got up and paced the floor. I saw the orderly with

rather a scared face making ready to press the bell, and I noticed that

the fat sergeant had gone to lunch.

“Say, mate,” I said, “don’t you feel inclined to do a poor fellow a

good turn? I know I’m for it all right, and I’ll take my medicine like

a lamb. But I want badly to put a telephone call through.”

“It ain’t allowed,” was the answer. “I’d get ’ell from the old man.”

“But he’s gone out,” I urged. “I don’t want you to do anything wrong,

mate, I leave you to do the talkin’ if you’ll only send my message. I’m

flush of money, and I don’t mind handin’ you a quid for the job.”

He was a pinched little man with a weak chin, and he obviously wavered.

“’Oo d’ye want to talk to?” he asked.

“Scotland Yard,” I said, “the home of the police. Lord bless you, there

can’t be no harm in that. Ye’ve only got to ring up Scotland Yard—I’ll

give you the number—and give the message to Mr Macgillivray. He’s the

head bummer of all the bobbies.”

“That sounds a bit of all right,” he said. “The old man ’e won’t be

back for ’alf an hour, nor the sergeant neither. Let’s see your quid

though.”

I laid a pound note on the form beside me. “It’s yours, mate, if you

get through to Scotland Yard and speak the piece I’m goin’ to give

you.”

He went over to the instrument. “What d’you want to say to the bloke

with the long name?”

“Say that Richard Hannay is detained at the A.P.M.”s office in Claxton

Street. Say he’s got important news—say urgent and secret news—and ask

Mr Macgillivray to do something about it at once.”

“But ’Annay ain’t the name you gave.”

“Lord bless you, no. Did you never hear of a man borrowin’ another

name? Anyhow that’s the one I want you to give.”

“But if this Mac man comes round ’ere, they’ll know ’e’s bin rung up,

and I’ll ’ave the old man down on me.”

It took ten minutes and a second pound note to get him past this

hurdle. By and by he screwed up courage and rang up the number. I

listened with some nervousness while he gave my message—he had to

repeat it twice—and waited eagerly on the next words.

“No, sir,” I heard him say, “’e don’t want you to come round ’ere. ’E

thinks as ’ow—I mean to say, ’e wants—”

I took a long stride and twitched the receiver from him.

“Macgillivray,” I said, “is that you? Richard Hannay! For the love of

God come round here this instant and deliver me from the clutches of a

tomfool A.P.M. I’ve got the most deadly news. There’s not a second to

waste. For God’s sake come quick!” Then I added: “Just tell your

fellows to gather Ivery in at once. You know his lairs.”

I hung up the receiver and faced a pale and indignant orderly. “It’s

all right,” I said. “I promise you that you won’t get into any trouble

on my account. And there’s your two quid.”

The door in the next room opened and shut. The A.P.M. had returned from

lunch....

Ten minutes later the door opened again. I heard Macgillivray’s voice,

and it was not pitched in dulcet tones. He had run up against minor

officialdom and was making hay with it.

I was my own master once more, so I forsook the company of the orderly.

I found a most rattled officer trying to save a few rags of his dignity

and the formidable figure of Macgillivray instructing him in manners.

“Glad to see you, Dick,” he said. “This is General Hannay, sir. It may

comfort you to know that your folly may have made just the difference

between your country’s victory and defeat. I shall have a word to say

to your superiors.”

It was hardly fair. I had to put in a word for the old fellow, whose

red tabs seemed suddenly to have grown dingy.

“It was my blame wearing this kit. We’ll call it a misunderstanding and

forget it. But I would suggest that civility is not wasted even on a

poor devil of a defaulting private soldier.”

Once in Macgillivray’s car, I poured out my tale. “Tell me it’s a

nightmare,” I cried. “Tell me that the three men we collected on the

Ruff were shot long ago.”

“Two,” he replied, “but one escaped. Heaven knows how he managed it,

but he disappeared clean out of the world.”

“The plump one who lisped in his speech?”

Macgillivray nodded.

“Well, we’re in for it this time. Have you issued instructions?”

“Yes. With luck we shall have our hands on him within an hour. We’ve

our net round all his haunts.”

“But two hours’ start! It’s a big handicap, for you’re dealing with a

genius.”

“Yet I think we can manage it. Where are you bound for?”

I told him my rooms in Westminster and then to my old flat in Park

Lane. “The day of disguises is past. In half an hour I’ll be Richard

Hannay. It’ll be a comfort to get into uniform again. Then I’ll look up

Blenkiron.”

He grinned. “I gather you’ve had a riotous time. We’ve had a good many

anxious messages from the north about a certain Mr Brand. I couldn’t

discourage our men, for I fancied it might have spoiled your game. I

heard that last night they had lost touch with you in Bradfield, so I

rather expected to see you here today. Efficient body of men the

Scottish police.”

“Especially when they have various enthusiastic amateur helpers.”

“So?” he said. “Yes, of course. They would have. But I hope presently

to congratulate you on the success of your mission.”

“I’ll bet you a pony you don’t,” I said.

“I never bet on a professional subject. Why this pessimism?”

“Only that I know our gentleman better than you. I’ve been twice up

against him. He’s the kind of wicked that don’t cease from troubling

till they’re stone-dead. And even then I’d want to see the body

cremated and take the ashes into mid-ocean and scatter them. I’ve got a

feeling that he’s the biggest thing you or I will ever tackle.”