The Thirty-Nine Steps
Suddenly as these memories chased across my brain I thought of my
present case and applied the moral. The Black Stone didn’t need to
bolt. They were quietly absorbed into the landscape. I was on the right
track, and I jammed that down in my mind and vowed never to forget it.
The last word was with Peter Pienaar.
Scaife’s men would be posted now, but there was no sign of a soul. The
house stood as open as a market-place for anybody to observe. A
three-foot railing separated it from the cliff road; the windows on the
ground-floor were all open, and shaded lights and the low sound of
voices revealed where the occupants were finishing dinner. Everything
was as public and above-board as a charity bazaar. Feeling the greatest
fool on earth, I opened the gate and rang the bell.
A man of my sort, who has travelled about the world in rough places,
gets on perfectly well with two classes, what you may call the upper
and the lower. He understands them and they understand him. I was at
home with herds and tramps and roadmen, and I was sufficiently at my
ease with people like Sir Walter and the men I had met the night
before. I can’t explain why, but it is a fact. But what fellows like me
don’t understand is the great comfortable, satisfied middle-class
world, the folk that live in villas and suburbs. He doesn’t know how
they look at things, he doesn’t understand their conventions, and he is
as shy of them as of a black mamba. When a trim parlour-maid opened the
door, I could hardly find my voice.
I asked for Mr Appleton, and was ushered in. My plan had been to walk
straight into the dining-room, and by a sudden appearance wake in the
men that start of recognition which would confirm my theory. But when I
found myself in that neat hall the place mastered me. There were the
golf-clubs and tennis-rackets, the straw hats and caps, the rows of
gloves, the sheaf of walking-sticks, which you will find in ten
thousand British homes. A stack of neatly folded coats and waterproofs
covered the top of an old oak chest; there was a grandfather clock
ticking; and some polished brass warming-pans on the walls, and a
barometer, and a print of Chiltern winning the St Leger. The place was
as orthodox as an Anglican church. When the maid asked me for my name I
gave it automatically, and was shown into the smoking-room, on the
right side of the hall.
That room was even worse. I hadn’t time to examine it, but I could see
some framed group photographs above the mantelpiece, and I could have
sworn they were English public school or college. I had only one
glance, for I managed to pull myself together and go after the maid.
But I was too late. She had already entered the dining-room and given
my name to her master, and I had missed the chance of seeing how the
three took it.
When I walked into the room the old man at the head of the table had
risen and turned round to meet me. He was in evening dress—a short coat
and black tie, as was the other, whom I called in my own mind the plump
one. The third, the dark fellow, wore a blue serge suit and a soft
white collar, and the colours of some club or school.
The old man’s manner was perfect. “Mr Hannay?” he said hesitatingly.
“Did you wish to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I’ll rejoin you.
We had better go to the smoking-room.”
Though I hadn’t an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself to play
the game. I pulled up a chair and sat down on it.
“I think we have met before,” I said, “and I guess you know my
business.”
The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their faces,
they played the part of mystification very well.
“Maybe, maybe,” said the old man. “I haven’t a very good memory, but
I’m afraid you must tell me your errand, sir, for I really don’t know
it.”
“Well, then,” I said, and all the time I seemed to myself to be talking
pure foolishness—“I have come to tell you that the game’s up. I have a
warrant for the arrest of you three gentlemen.”
“Arrest,” said the old man, and he looked really shocked. “Arrest! Good
God, what for?”
“For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day of last
month.”
“I never heard the name before,” said the old man in a dazed voice.
One of the others spoke up. “That was the Portland Place murder. I read
about it. Good heavens, you must be mad, sir! Where do you come from?”
“Scotland Yard,” I said.
After that for a minute there was utter silence. The old man was
staring at his plate and fumbling with a nut, the very model of
innocent bewilderment.
Then the plump one spoke up. He stammered a little, like a man picking
his words.
“Don’t get flustered, uncle,” he said. “It is all a ridiculous mistake;
but these things happen sometimes, and we can easily set it right. It
won’t be hard to prove our innocence. I can show that I was out of the
country on the 23rd of May, and Bob was in a nursing home. You were in
London, but you can explain what you were doing.”
“Right, Percy! Of course that’s easy enough. The 23rd! That was the day
after Agatha’s wedding. Let me see. What was I doing? I came up in the
morning from Woking, and lunched at the club with Charlie Symons.
Then—oh yes, I dined with the Fishmongers. I remember, for the punch
didn’t agree with me, and I was seedy next morning. Hang it all,
there’s the cigar-box I brought back from the dinner.” He pointed to an
object on the table, and laughed nervously.
“I think, sir,” said the young man, addressing me respectfully, “you
will see you are mistaken. We want to assist the law like all
Englishmen, and we don’t want Scotland Yard to be making fools of
themselves. That’s so, uncle?”
“Certainly, Bob.” The old fellow seemed to be recovering his voice.
“Certainly, we’ll do anything in our power to assist the authorities.
But—but this is a bit too much. I can’t get over it.”
“How Nellie will chuckle,” said the plump man. “She always said that
you would die of boredom because nothing ever happened to you. And now
you’ve got it thick and strong,” and he began to laugh very pleasantly.
“By Jove, yes. Just think of it! What a story to tell at the club.
Really, Mr Hannay, I suppose I should be angry, to show my innocence,
but it’s too funny! I almost forgive you the fright you gave me! You
looked so glum, I thought I might have been walking in my sleep and
killing people.”
It couldn’t be acting, it was too confoundedly genuine. My heart went
into my boots, and my first impulse was to apologize and clear out. But
I told myself I must see it through, even though I was to be the
laughing-stock of Britain. The light from the dinner-table candlesticks
was not very good, and to cover my confusion I got up, walked to the
door and switched on the electric light. The sudden glare made them
blink, and I stood scanning the three faces.
Well, I made nothing of it. One was old and bald, one was stout, one
was dark and thin. There was nothing in their appearance to prevent
them being the three who had hunted me in Scotland, but there was
nothing to identify them. I simply can’t explain why I who, as a
roadman, had looked into two pairs of eyes, and as Ned Ainslie into
another pair, why I, who have a good memory and reasonable powers of
observation, could find no satisfaction. They seemed exactly what they
professed to be, and I could not have sworn to one of them.
There in that pleasant dining-room, with etchings on the walls, and a
picture of an old lady in a bib above the mantelpiece, I could see
nothing to connect them with the moorland desperadoes. There was a
silver cigarette-box beside me, and I saw that it had been won by
Percival Appleton, Esq., of the St Bede’s Club, in a golf tournament. I
had to keep a firm hold of Peter Pienaar to prevent myself bolting out
of that house.
“Well,” said the old man politely, “are you reassured by your scrutiny,
sir?”
I couldn’t find a word.
“I hope you’ll find it consistent with your duty to drop this
ridiculous business. I make no complaint, but you’ll see how annoying
it must be to respectable people.”
I shook my head.
“O Lord,” said the young man. “This is a bit too thick!”
“Do you propose to march us off to the police station?” asked the plump
one. “That might be the best way out of it, but I suppose you won’t be
content with the local branch. I have the right to ask to see your
warrant, but I don’t wish to cast any aspersions upon you. You are only
doing your duty. But you’ll admit it’s horribly awkward. What do you
propose to do?”
There was nothing to do except to call in my men and have them
arrested, or to confess my blunder and clear out. I felt mesmerized by
the whole place, by the air of obvious innocence—not innocence merely,
but frank honest bewilderment and concern in the three faces.
“Oh, Peter Pienaar,” I groaned inwardly, and for a moment I was very
near damning myself for a fool and asking their pardon.
“Meantime I vote we have a game of bridge,” said the plump one. “It
will give Mr Hannay time to think over things, and you know we have
been wanting a fourth player. Do you play, sir?”
I accepted as if it had been an ordinary invitation at the club. The
whole business had mesmerized me. We went into the smoking-room where a
card-table was set out, and I was offered things to smoke and drink. I
took my place at the table in a kind of dream. The window was open and
the moon was flooding the cliffs and sea with a great tide of yellow
light. There was moonshine, too, in my head. The three had recovered
their composure, and were talking easily—just the kind of slangy talk
you will hear in any golf club-house. I must have cut a rum figure,
sitting there knitting my brows with my eyes wandering.
My partner was the young dark one. I play a fair hand at bridge, but I
must have been rank bad that night. They saw that they had got me
puzzled, and that put them more than ever at their ease. I kept looking
at their faces, but they conveyed nothing to me. It was not that they
looked different; they _were_ different. I clung desperately to the
words of Peter Pienaar.
Then something awoke me.
The old man laid down his hand to light a cigar. He didn’t pick it up
at once, but sat back for a moment in his chair, with his fingers
tapping on his knees.
It was the movement I remembered when I had stood before him in the
moorland farm, with the pistols of his servants behind me.
A little thing, lasting only a second, and the odds were a thousand to
one that I might have had my eyes on my cards at the time and missed
it. But I didn’t, and, in a flash, the air seemed to clear. Some shadow
lifted from my brain, and I was looking at the three men with full and
absolute recognition.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten o’clock.
The three faces seemed to change before my eyes and reveal their
secrets. The young one was the murderer. Now I saw cruelty and
ruthlessness, where before I had only seen good-humour. His knife, I
made certain, had skewered Scudder to the floor. His kind had put the
bullet in Karolides.
The plump man’s features seemed to dislimn, and form again, as I looked
at them. He hadn’t a face, only a hundred masks that he could assume
when he pleased. That chap must have been a superb actor. Perhaps he
had been Lord Alloa of the night before; perhaps not; it didn’t matter.
I wondered if he was the fellow who had first tracked Scudder, and left
his card on him. Scudder had said he lisped, and I could imagine how
the adoption of a lisp might add terror.
But the old man was the pick of the lot. He was sheer brain, icy, cool,
calculating, as ruthless as a steam hammer. Now that my eyes were
opened I wondered where I had seen the benevolence. His jaw was like
chilled steel, and his eyes had the inhuman luminosity of a bird’s. I