Chapter Thirteen
Another Dead

“An intellectual hatred is the worst.”

YEATS

The first thing to be done was obviously to rush out into the road and discover if anything was to be seen. But even as he went, Geoffrey remembered the car he had heard drive away, and knew it was useless. There were wheelmarks in the gravel court, but they lost themselves in a fringe of macadam adjoining the road, and it was impossible to tell which way the car had gone. For the rest, not a soul was about. As a kidnapping, it was not only daring but flawless.

Then there was the Inspector to telephone. The language with which he received the news fitted in well with Geoffrey’s mood. He promised to use what resources he could in tracing the car, and suggested that Geoffrey and Fielding should come down to the station at once to discuss a plan of action. They set off, leaving the Regius Professor of Mathematics drinking gravely and peaceably on his own, and never saw or heard of him again.

But while they walked, Geoffrey realised the utter hopelessness of what they had to do. For Fen had not told them the name of the criminal, and they could not find him in that way. He felt none of the excitement of the chase—only a nausea, a dull despair, and a sense of bitter self-reproach. What a perfect trap that note was, and what a blind imbecile he had been not to see through it!

The Inspector listened with a glum expression to what they had to tell him, and seemed devoid of constructive ideas. The churls from the Yard, it appeared, had returned to London early that morning with a view to making certain investigations into Peace’s past career. Fielding asked rather irritably what Peace could have been supposed to have had to do with it, since he was locked up in his cell when Fen disappeared, but even Geoffrey saw the logical flaw in this: they were dealing, after all, with a gang. The only slender clue they had to go on, as the Inspector pointed out, was the possible complicity of Harry James, the landlord of the ‘Whale and Coffin.’

Certainly a search-warrant could be produced, to enable them to look at his premises; but equally certainly, that move would have been anticipated. The Inspector had had one or two fresh pieces of news since they saw him last, but all of a negative kind: the case which had been dropped on Geoffrey in the train could not be traced; nor could the man who had dropped it; and nor could the assailant in the shop, who had made his escape through one of the other departments in the general confusion. But these, at the moment, were matters of very secondary importance. The Inspector had thought that he might be justified in pulling James in for questioning. Now that Fen had been kidnapped, however, he was less certain of the wisdom of this. If he was not dead already (Geoffrey turned sick inside), such action might simply precipitate his murder.

In the end, Fielding persuaded them that as a resident of the ‘Whale and Coffin’ it would be easier for him than for them to do a little unobtrusive snooping. Neither Geoffrey nor the Inspector seemed very willing to leave this to him alone. The ‘Whale and Coffin’ was, after all, their only chance. It was finally decided that while he was investigating Geoffrey should be stationed in the bar, as a second line of defence; and that, as a third, a constable should remain unobtrusively outside, ready to summon more help if necessary.

And so it was that a quarter of an hour later, with a quick-beating heart, Geoffrey stood once again in the crowded little public bar of the ‘Whale and Coffin,’ waiting. Fielding’s plan of action had simply been for a general search, as far as that was possible: and it had been agreed that if he did not return within twenty minutes, the place should be turned inside out. Geoffrey sipped whisky, and saw the minute-hand of his watch crawl through aeons of eternity from four to five, from five to six… All about him, the serious business of drinking continued tranquil and unregarding. It was impossible to suppose that their enemies had not anticipated this move, that they were not conscious of what was going on. Geoffrey became more nervous every second, and was profoundly grateful that he was surrounded by a crowd. The landlord was nowhere to be seen. He wondered what Fielding was doing.

In point of fact, Fielding had already found what he was looking for. He found it at once, and the chance nearly cost him his life. He had set off from his own bedroom down the narrow, panelled corridor, bending his head to avoid the low beams, and feeling slightly less enthusiastic about secret service work than usual. As it happened, he was gifted with a fairly high degree of physical courage, but it had occurred to him, as to Geoffrey, that they were hardly likely to take whoever they were looking for unawares, and the reflection not unnaturally depressed him. Experimentally he tried the first door along the corridor on the right. It was not probable that criminal evidence would be lying about in such a public spot, but one had to be methodical. The door yielded, and he found himself in a low white-panelled sitting-room, well-lighted and pleasantly furnished in chintz. It was empty, but from a closed door on the other side came the sound of voices. He tiptoed towards it, and put his ear to the keyhole. Fragments of conversation reached him.

“…tell you there’s never been a conger caught on this coast longer than twenty feet.”

“…you get them bigger in Cornwall.”

“The trouble is, the local men haven’t got the pilchard to bait the lines. And there’s so little good eating on a conger…”

This sounded unpromising, and he was about to creep away again when he thought better of it. If the people in there were guests of the hotel he could easily apologise. If not… Gently he turned the handle, opening the door a fraction of an inch. From within, a surprised voice called out:

“Hello! Who’s there?”

So there was nothing for it but to go in. He opened the door wide and stepped across the threshold. There were two men there talking. One was Harry James, and the other…

Savernake.

They sat at either side of a table, with beer in front of them. The room was a rather smaller replica of what he had just left. Apart from a few books which, his eye passing rapidly over them, Fielding recognized as being textbooks on Church music, it gave no sign of permanent habitation. Savernake said cheerily:

“Fielding! How pleasant to see you. I’m sorry we haven’t been able to see more of one another since you arrived.”

James said:

“Well, sir! Anything I can do for you? You’re quite comfortable, I hope?’

Savernake said:

“Join us for a drink. I very rarely do this, myself—one has one’s reputation to look after—but I like to have a talk with Harry about fishing now and again.”

He got up and put himself between Fielding and the only door, that by which he had entered. Fielding saw that the one large window was heavily barred, looking out on to a deserted courtyard at the back of the inn. He realised he had to fight. The two men were looking at him queerly. He felt suddenly helpless, and tried to speak, but the words stuck in the back of his throat.

Then he pulled over a table, and kicked a chair at the innkeeper. James stumbled momentarily, then righted himself. Neither he nor Savernake made any other movement. Fielding fell back slowly into a corner, scraping his left shoulder against the wall.

“Why, Fielding,” he heard Savernake say, “whatever’s the matter?”

Sick fright closed about his heart. For an age it seemed to stop beating. Then he filled his lungs to shout.

The room turned suddenly to blood. He was vaguely conscious of an explosion, a sudden tearing jolt which spun him hard against the wall and drove him fathoms down to a smashing concussion with the floor. Lying there, he struggled frantically both to keep consciousness and to suppress (biting his tongue) the terrible panic of the mind at the first realization that a part of the body has been destroyed. Obscurely he knew that he must keep consciousness, in case they said anything that would help him to find Fen; he must make them think he was dead… The lights of a million roundabouts whirled and pirouetted before his eyes; the pain was just beginning. Echoing strangely through mile-long tunnels and labyrinths, their voices came to his ears.

“What did you want to shoot for, you fool?” James was snarling. “That’s the second time playing about with that gun has nearly finished us. Do you want the whole neighbourhood in here?”

“No one will have heard it. Please remember that I am in charge here. I shall do what I think best.”

“Sweet Fanny Adams. What are you going to do now, Mr. Clever? You know Vintner’s downstairs and a copper outside the door?’

“We must get out, of course. Destroy the stuff and get out. If we can reach Scotland…”

“If we can reach Scotland! That’s pretty.”

“Go and dope Vintner’s drink. We can put him in a backroom and leave word that he was taken ill. That will give us a little more time.”

“You bloody, over-educated bungler…”

“I should not have the slightest compunction about using this gun again—on you. In fact, it would make my own departure a good deal easier.”

“Listen. Someone’s coming…”

“No, they’re not. No one heard that shot. Get out, will you, and fix Vintner’s drink.”

“And Fen? What are you going to do about him?”

“He’ll be dead by now.”

“I don’t think. Not with the trickle of gas you let out of that tap, and the room not properly sealed. Your blasted little bit of sadism’s going to fix us properly. We ought to go out to the old asylum and finish him off.”

“There’s no time, you f—swine. Go out and fix that drink.”

James went, and Fielding, unable to hold on any longer and incapable of warning Geoffrey, fell into a dead faint. In five minutes the landlord was back—five minutes during which Savernake paced about, wiped the perspiration from his long, thin face, smoothed back his corn-coloured hair, and twisted his fingers nervously together. His narrow upper lip was quivering slightly, with fright, and a muscle twitched continually in the corner of his right eye.

“Took it like a lamb,” said James briefly. “I’ve left word what’s to be done with him when he passes out.” He turned and inspected Fielding. “He’s not dead. If you can’t kill a man at that range, you’ll better leave that gun alone.”

Savernake produced the gun again.

“No, you don’t,” said James. “We were lucky first time—nobody downstairs heard—but we mayn’t be again. There are quieter ways of finishing him than that. Here, give me a hand.”

Together they dragged Fielding over to the gas-fire. It was of the movable kind, attached to the tap in the wall by a length of flexible tubing. James removed the tubing from the fire, and inserted the end into Fielding’s half-open mouth. Then he took a roll of surgical tape from his pocket, and plastered up Fielding’s nostrils and the corners of his mouth. He turned the gas-tap full on, and they stood back for a moment, listening to the gentle hiss, and watching the blood from his wound spreading slowly on the uneven floor.

“That’ll fix him,” said James. “Now let’s scoot. If we once get to Bristol, G. will have a plane to take us to Scotland, and we can snap our fingers at the lot of them.”

“I’d better look through his pockets.”

“For Jesus’ sake, hurry. If you aren’t down in five minutes, I’ll take the car without you.”

“I’ll be down.”

James went out, slamming the door behind him. Savernake bent over the recumbent body.

But Geoffrey was not doped. With a perceptivity unusual in him, he had observed that the last whisky he ordered was not drawn from the bottle suspended above the bar, but brought in from outside by the woman in charge, on the excuse of its being a better brand. He saw, too, that there was someone watching him through the chink of a door marked ‘Private’ beside the bar. With an ostentatious gesture he turned his back and pretended to drink, actually pouring the doped whisky down his collar inside his shirt. It felt extremely uncomfortable, but his buttoned coat hid the broad stain, and fortunately none of the other customers had noticed, or shown surprise at, this unusual manoeuvre. Wiping his mouth, he turned back to the bar, put his empty glass on it, and with some facetious remark ordered another. The woman went off to get it, and Geoffrey leaned idly on the bar until, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door by the bar softly close, and knew that for a moment he was safe. He knew, too, that Fielding had been caught, and what he must do.

He strolled carelessly to the door leading on to the street, and standing there for a moment, whistled a bar or two of “Widdicombe Fair.” In response to the pre-arranged signal, the constable moved gently away; but once out of sight of the windows, he ran. It was only five minutes’ walk from the ‘Whale and Coffin’ to the police station. Geoffrey calculated that in little more than ten the place could be surrounded.

He turned back to the bar, and pushed his way through to the lavatories. From them, he remembered, there was a second exit into the hotel proper. But once there, where to start looking? The place was an absolute warren of rooms and passages, in which the unknowledgeable might easily get lost. He considered, as well as he could. He knew at least where Fielding’s room was, and it was by no means unlikely that he had started his search from there, working outwards. Also, it was plain that he had not had time to search far. The upshot of it was that in another minute Geoffrey was entering that outer room which Fielding had entered a few minutes before.

As he stood on the threshold, the door leading into the inner room opened, and Savernake came out, shutting and locking it carefully behind him. Savernake! But Geoffrey did not pause to consider. He would not have paused to consider if it had been the Archbishop of Canterbury. He performed a sort of flying leap across the room, and landed on top of Savernake before the clergyman had even become aware of his presence.

Like most struggles, it was a hazy, chancy, unscientific business. But Geoffrey had the advantage of surprise, and Savernake was unable to get his gun out of his pocket. Moreover, Savernake was smaller, weaker and less wiry than Geoffrey. The end of it was that he fell, smashed his head against the skirting-board, and lay there, dazed and moaning.

Geoffrey was not waiting to make sure of him, however; the smell of gas from the inner room was becoming too insistent for that. He burst in, turned off the gas, tore the tape from Fielding’s mouth and nostrils, and applied what methods of first aid he could think of. Fielding was still breathing. Somewhere below Geoffrey heard a car start up and drive off. Then in a little time other cars drove up, and the police were on the stairs. Geoffrey pulled Fielding from the inner room to the other. He found Savernake had gone, and wondered momentarily if it had been he who had been in that car. But no; there would not have been time for him to get downstairs and out.

The Inspector had brought with him a doctor, who set about applying restoratives to Fielding, and dressing his wound. Geoffrey explained what little he knew.

“Savernake!” the Inspector exclaimed. “So that was it. Though I still don’t see…” He checked himself. “Never mind that. We’ll get him.”

“I think James must have left in a car.”

“We’ll get him, too. I’ll telephone the county police and the military authorities, and we’ll arrange for a cordon.” He disappeared abruptly from the room.

“He’s coming round,” said the doctor. He pillowed

Fielding’s head in his arm. “Someone ring the hospital and tell them to send an ambulance.”

Fielding opened his eyes and was violently sick. He groaned and struggled to speak.

“Keep quiet,” said the doctor. “You’ll be all right. I don’t think the wound’s serious,” he added to Geoffrey. “It must just have missed the right lung.”

“…James… Savernake…” Fielding said. His speech came slowly, broken by long, retching gasps, and his face and fingernails were blue with cyanosis. “Fen gassed… in… in…” His voice became incoherent. Geoffrey leaned forward.

“Yes?” he said. “Yes?” His whole body was itching with impatience.

Fielding tried again, but only succeeded in retching air. Then he fell back, with his eyes closed.

“For God’s sake,” said Geoffrey to the doctor. “For God’s sake try and bring him round somehow. He knows where Fen is… Fen’s life depends on it… You must bring him round.”

“My dear sir,” said the doctor with a touch of irritation, “you’re demanding the impossible. That is… Well, I could try, but it would be infernally dangerous. It would probably kill him.”

“He’d want you to do it.”

“Perhaps,” said the doctor drily; “but that hasn’t got anything to do with it.”

“I should say it had everything to do with it.”

The doctor looked at Geoffrey steadily for a moment. Then he said:

“All right. I shall get struck off the register, and probably had up for manslaughter into the bargain. My wife and children will starve. But I’ll try. Give me that bag.”

Fen had awoken from a dream in which he was being pursued by a gigantic praying mantis down the steep slope of a railway cutting, to find himself constricted in a large white contraption which he only slowly recognised as a strait-jacket. After trying to sort out the implications of this unusual situation for a moment, he devoted himself to being quietly sick. Then he looked up to see Savernake and James, who were standing silently watching him.

“Hello,” he said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster. “You look pretty silly.”

Savernake sneered. “Not as silly as you do, I assure you. There’s a certain appropriateness about your surroundings, don’t you think? This is the old lunatic asylum, you know.”

“Indeed,” said Fen briefly. He made experiments with his limbs, and found that his legs also were tied.

“Don’t bother to try and get free,” said Savernake. “It will be a waste of energy.”

“Why did you kidnap me?”

“To be able to kill you quietly and conveniently.”

“Thanks so much… Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m going to be ill again… your blasted chloroform…”

“Do.”

When he had finished, Fen said: “And what now?”

“We shall be obliged to dispose of you.”

“Do talk English,” said Fen with a touch of acerbity. “And try to stop imagining you’re in a book.”

“My dear Professor, I am the last person you are ever going to speak to. You might pretend to be civil.”

Suddenly Fen laughed. “How old are you, Savernake?”

“Why?”

“I just wanted to know.”

“I’m twenty-six.” Fen laughed again, and Savernake snarled: “What the devil’s so funny?”

“It’s only that I know your type of undergraduate so well. It’s always existed in Oxford—over-clever, incapable of concentration or real thought, affected, arty, with no soul, no morals, and a profound sense of inferiority.”

Savernake stepped forward and kicked Fen in the face. After a minute:

“That hurt,” said Fen mildly, “and you’ve knocked out one of my teeth.” He spat it on to the floor. “Why do you conspire against your country?”

“That has no relevance at present, and I am not prepared to discuss it. I find a certain charm, however, in the fact that Nazism muzzles the fools, the public-bar wiseacres, the democratic morons.”

“It kills a lot of people.”

“That does not matter.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t to you. When you’re being killed it will, though. You’ll find it most unpleasant, and at that moment you’d give your soul to spend the rest of your life listening to public-bar wiseacres.”

“Like all democrats, you are a sentimentalist.”

“I think killing people is a bad thing, that’s all,” said Fen, still mildly. He sighed. “Well, what are you going to do with me?’

“Turn on the gas.”

“The gas?” Fen was surprised. “But I thought this place was deserted. It’ll be off at the main.”

“It’s being taken over by the military authorities the day after tomorrow,” said James. It was the first time he had spoken. “The gas has been very conveniently put on again.”

“Where is this, anyway?” Fen asked.

“Five miles out of Tolnbridge,” Savernake replied, “a mile from road or cottage in every direction. If your nerve fails and you scream, as you very probably will, no one will hear you. But we shall gag you before we leave, just in case.”

Fen thought for a moment. Then: “I think,” he remarked, “that I’d rather have a quicker death than gassing.”

“Very well,” Savernake’s voice was totally indifferent. “Shoot him, James.”

James took a revolver from a shoulder-holster, opened the magazine, and shut it again.

“Do hurry up, man,” said Savernake in the same lifeless tone. “We can’t stop here all night. And for God’s sake put your glasses on. You might not do it properly first time, and we don’t want a filthy mess.”

James nodded, without speaking. He drew a case from his pocket, opened it, took out the glasses, polished them carefully and put them on. Then he cocked the pistol, pointed it at Fen’s head, and tightened his finger on the trigger.

Fen abruptly changed his mind. “I think I’d rather be gassed,” he said very rapidly, and added, as James with a shrug lowered the gun: “Plutôt souffrir que mourir, c’est la devise des hommes.”

“Oh, we’ll try and arrange for you to suffer,” said Savernake. He went over to the gas-jet in the wall, and experimentally turned it on. There was a sharp hiss.

“Admirable,” he said. “But that would make it rather too quick.” He turned the tap down to the lowest possible point. “Now, let’s see. The windows are closed, but the room won’t be properly sealed, so there’ll be some escape. I should say that with the gas at that strength it will take about an hour and a half.”

“That seems bloody foolhardy to me,” muttered James. “Suppose someone finds him before the time’s up?”

“No one will. How can they? And we must leave him a little time to meditate, mustn’t we?” To Fen: “I’m afraid we must gag you now. We’ll make it as comfortable as possible.” Then, when it was finished:

“Goodbye. I won’t say that I’m sorry to have to do this, because it delights me. Come on, James.”

Fen, being incapable of other utterance, nodded his head in dismissal. They went out, locking the door behind them. Fen found the silence a relief. He bent his head towards the jet, which was on the other side of the room, but the issue of gas was so weak that it gave no sound. Then he did a little struggling, without other effect than to accentuate his cramp and send spasms of sharp pain through his limbs. The strait-jacket made him extremely hot, and he soon desisted. The room offered no promise of assistance, being large and totally devoid of furniture—the warden’s office, he judged. Germans, he reflected vaguely, seemed to have a neurotic obsession about mad-houses—there was The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, for example and The Testament of Dr. Mabuse. But these were Nazi agents, and the Nazis had driven out Wiene and Lang… He pulled himself together. These vague meanderings would not do. He was conscious of an insistent regret at the prospect of dying.

Fielding’s eyes were still closed. The doctor put his things back in his bag and looked up at Geoffrey. “Sorry,” he said. “No go. I can’t bring him round.”

“Oh, God… He isn’t worse, is he?”

“No. He’ll pull through all right. Is that the ambulance? About time we got him out of here. I’ll let you know the moment he utters a word.”

Geoffrey stood helpless, irresolute. “If they only catch James or Savernake… No, its hopeless. Fen’ll be dead by then.”

“They’re swine, aren’t they?” said the doctor simply. It was more comforting than an elaborate assumption of concern.

Fielding was taken out on a stretcher. He seemed hardly to be breathing. The doctor followed. Geoffrey cursed viciously and racked his brains. Where had they put Fen? What way was there to find out? He sought desperately for a clue, but none came. Gassed… a tap in a wall… gas, gas… gasometers… gas company…

He emitted a sudden yell. “Idiot!” he shouted to the empty room. “Idiot!” It gave a surprised and slightly mocking echo. Geoffrey rushed like a lunatic down the stairs.

He met the Inspector coming away from the telephone. “So far, so good,” said that worthy, blandly unaware of Geoffrey's pressing desire to communicate with him. “The cordon’s out, and I don’t think that car’ll get through it. Savernake must be on foot, or on a bike. I’m going after him…”

“Never mind all that,” Geoffrey interrupted him excitedly. “Get back to that telephone!”

The Inspector stared.

“The gas company!” Geoffrey bawled. “The gas company…”

Five minutes later, beneath some four thousand lunches in the last stages of preparation, the gas flickered and went out. The supply for the whole district had been cut off at source.

Three times already Fen had been violently sick, and twice he had only just prevented himself from going under. There must be a good deal of gas in the room by now, he thought, and his mind was by no means clear.

What the time was, and how long had passed since James and Savernake had left, he had no means of telling. His face hurt badly, but the gas had a little anaesthetised the pain. He found he could no longer focus the room properly. He sighed inwardly, and devoted himself to meditating on the First and Last Things.

A quarter of an hour later, he found to his surprise that he was still meditating on the First and Last Things. The shock was sufficient to clear his brain a little, and to allow him to observe that the sun was appreciably higher than it had been when he had last looked. Moreover, the room was coming back into focus, and his face was hurting more. A mood of mild curiosity seized him. Perhaps there was something peculiar about his lungs which made him immune from gas. The thought amused him so much that he made himself sick again trying to laugh at it, and to be sick with a gag in your mouth is not a pleasant experience. He calmed down a bit.

But two hours later still, when Geoffrey, the doctor, and two constables broke into the room, he was feeling lively, irritable and obscurely aggrieved. The first thing he said, when they had taken the gag out of his mouth and he had painfully forced his jaws into working order again was:

“I’m immune from gas.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Geoffrey. “It was turned off hours ago at the mains. And oh, you old devil, how glad I am to see you again.”

While they helped Fen down to the car, Geoffrey explained what had happened. “Eventually,” he concluded, “I remembered that when we were in the ‘Three Shrews,’ you pointed to some place on the map which you said might be the gang’s centre of operations. Then Fielding interrupted you, and we never heard what it was. But I noticed a name near where you were pointing. I couldn’t remember what it had been—you know that sort of complete mental blank—but I knew it had something to do with the ghost story and Thurston’s diary. I rushed round to Dallow’s house, and looked at the diary again. There it was—‘met her today secretly, in the coppice beyond Slater’s Close.’ Of course—Slater’s Wood. The police knew there was only one empty building near there—this one. So here we are.”

“Ah.” Fen was unusually laconic. “Well, it was a pure guess on my part, but a lucky one. Thank heavens for all of you.” After a while he said grandiloquently: “I have saved the country.” He went on saying this for some weeks afterwards, but as no one took any notice of it, he finally gave it up.

They drove back to Tolnbridge, to the police station.

But when they got there, the cupboard was bare. Which is to say that the Inspector and most of his men were out on the search for James and Savernake. From an excitable Sergeant left in charge, his head evidently full of heroic deeds and high responsibility, they learned that Fielding was going on as satisfactorily as could be expected; that it was almost certain James was still in the area, since the cordon had been quickly and tightly organized; and that no sign had been discovered of Savernake, who, it was supposed, had gone to earth in some part of the town. They decided to wait in the hope of getting some news. It was now nearly teatime, and a constable brewed them a thick, oily concoction of tea. They went away and saw Peace—still in his cell, still reading The Mind and Society—and told him everything that had happened. He seemed bewildered.

“Well, I never liked Savernake,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have thought he had the mentality to organise a thing like this.” He embarked on an account of psychologically ideal types, to which nobody paid much attention.

Meanwhile, the Inspector pursued his ways, alone and full of a righteous indignation. He had organised the men at his disposal so as to cover the places at which Savernake was most likely to be found, and had chosen, for himself, to return to Dr. Butler’s house. Savernake, he reminded himself, had frequently stayed there and might at least have looked in to collect money or belongings. In this he was proved to be right. Frances met him in the drive, pale-faced and frightened.

“Thank God you’ve come!” she exclaimed. The words tumbled over one another. “It’s July—Savernake. He’s been here with a gun. What’s been happening? Is Geoffrey all right? Did July kill my father? He disconnected the phone and we couldn’t reach anyone, and we didn’t dare come out of the house, in case he was still about. He took all the money we had.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Do you know which way he went?”

“No. We didn’t see. Mummy’s in a terrible state.”

“Listen,” said the Inspector. “Will you do something for me?” His normal easy-going manner had vanished, and a brisk, formidable coldness had taken its place.

“What?”

“Go down to the station and tell them what’s happened. They’ll know exactly what to do.”

“I… I daren’t. I’m frightened.” She hesitated. “And I’m afraid to leave Mummy alone.”

“Take her with you. You’ve nothing to worry about. Savernake’s too busy trying to get away to bother about you.” He looked at her steadily. “Will you do it?”

“I… All right.”

“Good girl.”

The Inspector ran back to his bicycle and mounted. From the gate he shouted:

“Was he on foot?”

“Yes. I think so.” He left her standing forlorn and slightly helpless in the drive.

There were three ways Savernake might have gone. One was back into the town—a wholly foolhardy undertaking, unworthwhile even for the sake of bluff; a second was down to the waterfront, which he must have anticipated would be guarded; and the third was along the estuary and round the cliffs to Tolnmouth. Here it might just be possible for a man on foot to elude the watchers, and the Inspector decided it was his best chance. He would, of course, make an admirable target, on his bicycle, for a stray shot from a copse or thicket by the roadside; but that had to be risked. The Inspector, normally a peaceable, easy-going man, kind to his wife and family, fond of books, genial in his enforcement of the law and very generally liked in Tolnbridge, had now become a formidable machine, practically insensible to ordinary fear. He recognized, wryly, that he would probably be a good deal less bold running with the hare instead of hunting with the hounds. But he remembered also the many unamiable characteristics of his quarry, and deliberately stifled that pity for the defeated which springs up infallibly in the English mind. He liked England, without thinking very much about it, and he objected, with more intensity than he would have admitted, to people who tried to interfere with her. Moreover, he liked to think of England as standing solidly against her enemies, not buffeted by treachery from within; that offended his sense of symmetry. “Je hais,” he might have said if he had known enough French, “le mouvement qui déplace les lignes.”

He was glad to have his gun with him. The only time he ever gave himself wholly up to resentment and dislike was when he engaged in target practice. At such times he vaguely felt himself to be engaged in destroying some undefined power of evil; the target became his personal enemy, and he fired at it as though it represented some amalgam of the forces of oppression—Capitalism, Fascism, Bolshevism (he seldom particularised further)—incarnate in shadowy, insubstantial, infinitely menacing figures. It was the only form of day-dreaming he allowed himself, but it made him peculiarly dangerous when he had his gun and something legitimate to shoot at.

In the meantime, it was exceedingly hot.

In a quarter of an hour he had arrived at the top of the cliffs, near the deserted quarry which Geoffrey and Frances had seen on their walk that morning. It was possible that he had missed Savernake on the way. But he knew that half a mile on there were guards, and he decided to climb up among the gorse-bushes on a small knoll and discover if anything could be seen. And it was just as he was laying down his bicycle—no longer practicable on the rough track—that he saw Savernake.

He was working his way quickly, silently, and apprehensively through the bushes only about fifteen yards away, and by a lucky chance had not observed the Inspector’s approach. It was possible to see the sunlight gleaming on the sweat which poured from his brow, and the limp, tousled condition of his corn-coloured hair. The Inspector sighed his satisfaction as he crouched out of sight: it was too simple. He waited until Savernake, glancing nervously about, had arrived in the open and turned his back to go further, and then drew his revolver and stepped out after him.

“Stop and hold up your hands!”

Savernake stopped, stiffened, but did not turn. Then he began in a sudden fury of desperation to run, doubling back away from the direction he had been going, and the guards. The Inspector went after him, but he was the heavier man, and Savernake was impelled by panic fear. The Inspector stopped and aimed his gun.

Twenty yards now separated them, and the shot was a difficult one, with Savernake in swift, dodging flight. He staggered for a moment at the impact of the first bullet, but still went on—more slowly now, tripping on stones and gorse-roots, and clutching at the spines for support, The Inspector fired again; missed. A third time, and Savernake fell. But he went on crawling away, still alive, as a chicken will run about a farmyard with head severed. Perhaps he was remembering what Fen had told him about his own death, only three hours before; no one ever knew. For the Inspector also was remembering things—the killing of two men, the dreary blasphemy of the Black Mass. He fired a fourth time, and the shot smashed Savernake’s backbone as he crawled. He stopped, seemed to be trying to get to his feet, and then fell hard on his face and lay still. So he was dead.

Fen and Geoffrey walked back from the police station to the clergy-house. They had grown tired of waiting, and when Frances had arrived to announce that the Inspector was on Savernake’s track, had made up their mind to return, It was with a full heart that Geoffrey saw Frances again; he realised now that he had never really expected to. But a hand-press and a smile were somehow all he had been able to manage.

Of James nothing had so far been heard. The guards were positive that his car had not been able to get through, and thought it extremely unlikely that he had succeeded on foot. But Geoffrey was only too willing to leave the job of finding him to the police, and so, it seemed, was Fen. Although now doped and patched by the doctor, he had grown noticeably more bilious, irritable and depressed. He refused to indulge in any explanations, merely saying:

“I’m going to my room to lie down until dinner. I’m ill,” he added severely. “You think things out on your own.” He tramped upstairs, while Geoffrey settled down in the drawing-room to think.

Harry James got up from the armchair in Fen’s bedroom as Fen flung open the door and strode in. His eyes, small and black as a pig’s, glistened behind the thick lenses of his glasses, and the hand which held his revolver trembled slightly. His clothes were dusty and dishevelled.

“Come in, Professor,” he said softly. “I was waiting for you. Close the door quietly and don’t try to shout.”

Fen did as he was told. He felt very tired.

“You were mad to come here,” he said. “And you certainly won’t get away.”

The innkeeper’s hand was trembling more. “I know that. But I decided I wanted to settle things with you first. If you hadn’t been so bloody interfering, we should have been all right… No, keep your hands up.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” Fen complained.

“Never mind. It will only be for a minute.”

Fen thanked heaven, with perhaps more fervour than was normal, that he was standing behind a chair, with his feet and legs out of sight of James. He blessed the inefficiency of the housekeeper, who had left a small pebble lying there, where he had dropped it yesterday when emptying out what he had imagined was a praying mantis, but which proved to be a deformed grasshopper. The only other problem was of not betraying in the upper part of his body the movement of his leg—that and getting the pebble in the right direction without moving his eyes from the man with the gun. Of course, the chance was so frail as to be almost ludicrous, but there was no other, and he had at least the advantage that James was in a highly nervous state. His glance strayed to the full-length cupboard set in the door; it had been convenient because of its lack of a keyhole. He hoped the damned things hadn’t all killed one another by now. It was a pity he was not near enough to James to risk a leap at the crucial moment, but that couldn’t be helped.

Aloud he said:

“What I can’t fathom is why the hell a man like you gets mixed up in a business like this at all.”

“Don’t try to gain time. It won’t help you.” James’ finger tightened on the trigger.

“For heaven’s sake give me a minute or so.”

“So you want to know why I joined the Nazis, do you?” It suddenly occurred to Fen that for James, too, every minute of life was now precious; the thought encouraged him.

“Then I’ll tell you, Mr. clever-bloody-professor. I joined ’em because they pay well, see? A fat bloody lot I care what government there is. That doesn’t affect men like me. But I can tell you one thing: if I’d had the running of this business things would have turned out very differently…”

Now, thought Fen, now: no use putting it off. His eyes fixed unwaveringly on James, he kicked the pebble. His heart almost stopped until he heard the slight tap and clatter as it hit the cupboard door. Inwardly he vowed libations to the gods; outwardly he gave a slight start, and ostentatiously paid no attention. From now on it depended on acting.

James had heard. He stepped quickly back to bring Fen and the cupboard door simultaneously within his range of vision. Then he jerked his head towards it.

“What’s through there?”

“Nothing,” said Fen rapidly. “It’s only a cupboard. Why?” (Oh, the strain of not over-acting one’s acting!)

“I think you know very well why. There’s someone behind there.” (So the trick had worked.)

“Nothing except my suits, I assure you.” Fen kept glancing rapidly and with heavily concealed expectancy at the door. James’ nerves were getting worse, and he also was unable to keep his eyes off it. The problem now was to keep his mind off the realities of the situation. From his point of view, it hardly mattered if the whole Devon constabulary were behind that door; he had chosen to make his own escape impossible, and he would still be able to carry out his purpose of killing Fen. At the same time, he evidently had no wish to die at once, which would almost certainly happen if there were someone behind the door, and besides, the motive of curiosity is a very powerful one. Fen was relying on these two factors. And it was therefore with intense dismay that he heard James say:

“But it doesn’t matter, does it? It doesn’t make any difference to our little quarrel.”

It seemed to have failed. But still the curiosity and the fear must remain, waiting to be aroused again. And plainly James did not suspect the origin of the noise, for the pebble was a small one, and moreover had bounced out of sight. Fen noted with slight satisfaction that if James moved to the door he would be in range of a quick jump; but the difficulty was to get him there.

“I wonder if you’d mind,” said Fen, “if I got something out of that cupboard… in a pocket of my suit…”

“Don’t try that on me… and don’t move.” The trigger-finger was tense again.

“Perhaps you’d get it: a photograph…”

“And perhaps I wouldn’t.” James’ eyes were uneasy again. The sweat was beginning to trickle down his cheeks, and his glasses were misting over—an added advantage, Fen thought, as he dare not attempt to wipe them. Suddenly he burst out:

“You leave that bloody cupboard alone! How do I know it’s not a door with one of your fine friends behind it?” Anger, and fear, had triumphed, and Fen felt a moments real hope. But it rapidly faded. The innkeeper recovered his self-possession. His nerves had come very near breaking-point, but they had not broken. He was breathing quickly and heavily now, as a man breathes whose heart is beating too quickly.

“I’ve had about enough of this,” he snarled. “I’m going to finish you now, before you can get up to any more of your tricks.” Again his finger grew tight.

Fen was desperate. He must get the man’s attention back to that door, or perish. A start in that direction? It would have to be very carefully judged. Too little, and it would be ineffectual; too much, and James’ already overstrained nerve might break, and the fatal shot be fired. But that must be risked.

For a fraction of a second Fen resigned himself to eternity. No explosion came. But now James could stand it no longer. The sweat was literally dripping on to his collar, and his hand shook almost uncontrollably.

“How do I know it isn’t all a bloody trick!” he shouted suddenly. “How do I know that! There’s no one there! I’ll prove it! And by Christ, I’ll make a mess of you when I have!”

He strode towards the cupboard door. Fen closed his eyes in gratitude. He had done all he could. It rested with them now. New anxieties seized him. Perhaps they had fought and killed one another. Perhaps the darkness had made them torpid. Perhaps… He calculated distances, and braced his muscles for a jump.

A faint drowsy murmur, the murmur of a hayfield in summer, filled the air. James backed towards the cupboard, stood pressed against the wall, felt for the latch, lifted it, and, after a moment’s hesitation, half opened the door.

It was enough. Out of it, like the battalions of hell, poured a seemingly unending swarm of bees, wasps, and hornets, assembled there by Fen for the purposes of experiment, and maddened by their dark and prolonged imprisonment. Since James was the nearest animate object, they attacked his face with the utmost ferocity. It would have needed a superman to keep his head in such an extraordinary situation, and James’ nerve was already gone. His attention was diverted just long enough for Fen to take a running kick at the gun in his right hand. It went off, smashing three fingers of his left. The insect horde turned its attention to Fen. When Geoffrey, startled by the shot, came racing upstairs, he found James babbling and moaning on the floor and Fen beating fiercely but unavailingly at his vengeful collection.

Since Fen was rather badly stung (though not as badly as he made out), they put him to bed, swearing terribly and crying for whisky.