“The prisoner has applied for bail,” the double-bass player announced at last, “and the court sees no reason to
oppose it. Bail has accordingly been arranged in the sum of one hundred pounds and the prisoner is free to leave the court.”
“Good,” said Gillett. “I wasn't sure they'd allow it.”
“You paying?”
Gillett smiled.
“Not exactly. He won't run away.”
A man on bail is always in a rather curious position. He is like a person going about in quarantine for measles. Some people naturally sheer off him. Bansted, for example, could obviously see the spots every time Dr. Mann approached. And Rogers and the great Dr. Smith were both clearly looking out for any signs of scratching. Even Gillett took no steps to make life any easier for Dr. Mann. From his whole manner it was obvious that, having done the decent thing by arranging bail, that was where his intervention ended. And Mellon, who had just been reading the latest batch of magazines from America, was convinced that the entire British Commonwealth was being purely frivolous in the matter of counter-espionage. Martyr or not, Dr. Mann in his view, should have been kept in the cooler for safety's sake.
This meant that I saw rather a lot of Dr. Mann. He came bearing down on me full of inspissated Teutonic gloom.
“It is because you have all been so good to me that it is so terrible,” he began.
There wasn't very much that I could say in answer to that. So I asked him to have a drink. But even that didn't work
any longer. He shook his head at me and pursed his lips together.
“No. That would be wrong,” he said. “I have no right to drink any more. In prison I shall have my drinks brought to me every day, no?”
I think that it was the first joke that Dr. Mann had ever attempted. But it wasn't very successful.
“So you did really pinch it?” I asked.
Dr. Mann went that pale tallow colour again.
“It was in order to save life,” he said simply.
“Any luck?”
“Not now the police have stopped it,” he replied, shaking his head again. “They are murderers only they are too stupid to understand. Stupid people are always the most cruel.”
Any conversation carried on in generalisations inevitably gets me down. It is one of the bad continental habits like not covering up the works on their locomotives.
“How did you try to get it out?” I asked.
Dr. Mann spread his hands in the international gesture that is intended to convey that the speaker is holding nothing back.
“In the fountain pen for my mother,” he said. “I removed the rubber sac and refilled it. If it had not been for the theft of the culture no one would ever have known. But then, of course, they examined everything. It was like Germany again.”
“That's about the way the culture could have been got out, too, isn't it?” I asked casually. “A fountain pen's just about the right size.”
Dr. Mann nodded.
“Exactly right,” he said.
“Was that why you burgled the post office?”
Again Dr. Mann nodded.
“Which were you looking for,” I asked, “the penicillin or the culture?”
“The penicillin,” Dr. Mann answered. “The culture had gone long ago. But I was too late. And now there is nothing more that I can do. My sister's fiancé will surely die.”
“What's the matter with him?” I asked. Even though we were alone, Dr. Mann dropped his voice as he told me.
“That's certainly tough on your sister,” I agreed with him.
The next day I had my first opportunity of speaking to the demure one. She was back on the job again even though she shouldn't have been. And when she put down her last slide she gave a faint expiring groan. Gillett heard it and came over. But it was nothing, she said, just a headache. And she announced then that she was going to take a walk to get rid of it.
It was scarcely one of her brighter ideas because the mist had been hanging over the moor all day. And if she was going to have 'flu or something, she would just be speeding up the process. Gillett certainly tried hard enough to dissuade her. And I think it was the first time I'd ever heard him raise his voice to anyone.
“You're simply being absurd,” he said. “Let me get you some aspirin.”
But the demure one was obviously being obstinate too. And that seemed to annoy Gillett.
“Well, for goodness' sake, wait until I'm through with this and then I'll come with you,” he said.
That, however, apparently wouldn't satisfy her either. She was already half-way to the door while Gillett was talking to her.
Gillett was still reasoning with her as he went by me.
“I don't like you going out there,” he said. “Not alone. And with all this mist about. Not after what happened to me. I'd just rather you didn't.”
I heard the word “silly” on the demure one's lips and something about “stop fussing.” Then she went. Gillett stood there looking worried.
“I wish to God she
would
go away for a bit,” he said, feelingly. “She isn't doing herself any good by stopping here. And I don't think it's safe for her. I'd feel a good deal happier if they had the moor patrolled properly.”
Then I saw the other side of him. The shutters came down. He went straight on with his work just where he had left off. His hand on the focusing knob on the microscope was steady and rather distinguished looking. And when someone is staring down a mike you can't see whether he is still looking anxious or not.
I passed Dr. Mann, who was carrying a slide or something over to the Director's office, and caught up with the demure one about quarter of a mile from the Institute. She had taken the one decent track that led over the moor. And,
even though the mist had thickened up considerably, I could see her a good hundred yards ahead of me.
“Carry your bag, miss,” I said, as I drew alongside her.
She turned sharply when I spoke to her. That was because I was wearing my crepe-rubbers and must have given the effect of creeping up on her. I don't think that she had been expecting to meet anyone. And I'm pretty sure that she didn't want to either. When she faced round I could see that she was crying. But I pretended not to notice.
“Mind if I walk with you?” I asked.
The demure one said that she didn't mind, and we walked on together. But even that didn't get me very far. Because I couldn't extract so much as a single word. She just kept her head deliberately turned away from me. And only the occasional sniffs that came in my direction indicated the kind of walk that she was having.
So I waded right in up to my armpits during the long silence.
“I've been noticing you,” I said. “You haven't looked at all well lately.”
I got back a muffled and rather resentful I'm-all-right-thank-you-please-don't-start-bothering-yourself-about-me kind of answer.
“But we're all worried about you,” I said. “It's not good for a girl to get a lot of glass in her hair.”
This time the reply was the same as before only more emphatic.
That meant that I might as well take a real plunge even if it meant getting my ears wet.
“Why not go away for a bit?” I asked. “Give yourself a break.”
But there was evidently something about the whole idea that rankled. And a moment later I knew what it was.
“Did Hilda ask you to say that?” she demanded.
“Hilda among others,” I replied quite truthfully. “It occurred to several of us.”
“Well, I'm not going,” she said. “I'm not going. And it's no use trying to make me.”
She had turned towards me as she said it and she had stopped crying by now. The whole effect was a bit smudgy at the corners. But there was no further effort at avoiding me. I was looking right into her eyes as she said her piece for the third and last time.
“I'm not going, and that's definite,” the words were.
But I wasn't really listening. Not with any attention that is. A girl's eyes usually look terrible when she's been crying. But the demure one's had somehow managed to survive the test. They were deeper violet than ever.
“Okay,” I said. “I'll get a refund on the ticket.”
The path here ran along the bottom of a little valley. And the mist really had begun to fill things up by now. It came sliding over the crest like liquid cotton-wool. I didn't care for the look of it.
“Gone far enough?” I asked. “Looks a bit sticky round the corner.”
We stood there for a moment watching the mist. By now it wasn't merely rolling up on us from in front. There was an unpleasant pincer movement on either side as well. It was as though the mist were making a deliberate and intelligent attempt to cut us off. And as we turned somebody fired out of the mist just behind us.
It was so close that I could see the flash. I felt the girl beside me suddenly catch her breath and stumble.
As I grabbed her, I realised that this was the second time that I had held Una in my arms. But never for very long.
Last time, Gillett had burst in on us. And at the present moment, I couldn't forget that somewhere in the mist-pockets on all sides of us, there was a lunatic prowling around with a revolver.
We must have been about six yards from the bull's-eye area when I bent over her to see what had happened. And when I got her raincoat open I didn't like the look of what I found. There was blood everywhere. A lot of it. From the shoulder downwards one side was already fairly soaking. And my application of first aid was probably exactly the sort of thing that the St. John's Ambulance was founded to prevent.
But blood can be rather dramatically misleading. That is, if you're not used to the sight of it. There usually appears to be more of it than there really is. I knew that much. My trouble, however, was that I couldn't find out where it was all coming from. Whenever I started feeling about anywhere my fingers came away sticky. And I saw then that there was nothing for it but to start undressing her. And here I wished that I had listened a bit more carefully when the A.R.P. lectures had been on.
I used the quick, simple method, and I ripped the seams open. I've always carried one of those flat, razor-blade affairs about with me. They come in very handy for cutting string and sharpening pencils, and I've even used them for the purpose of elementary dissection. This time I went down the sleeve of the Burberry like an east-end slasher.
And then I slit about another six guineas' worth of fine woolwork by opening out the sleeve of the jumper and working upwards.
The bullet had gone clean through the brachial artery all right, and the blood was fairly pumping out. But arterial bleeding isn't all that difficult to stop. Even the very words out of the text-book came back to me: “The brachial artery if severed should be suppressed against the inner aspect of the humerus.” And with the help of my pocket handkerchief and using my fountain pen as a lever to make the knot a bit tighter, that's how I suppressed it. It was good now for about ten minutes. After that anything might happen.
The whole time I was working I had a slightly jumpy feeling wondering where the next bullet was coming from. And when. The main thing that troubled me was thinking of what a waste it would all be if the dirty bastard out there in the mist suddenly decided to pump in another one just when I'd got everything tidy. And I was bound to admit that for the life of me I could not imagine why he didn't. We were a number one stationary target, and he could have hit us with a catapult.
So far, I haven't said a word about the patient. And this is always the highest tribute of which any doctor is capable. For the demure one hadn't fainted, or done anything silly like that. And, after the first little gasp when the bullet had actually hit her, she hadn't even cried out. She had just lain there, biting her lip. And like a sensible girl, she had kept her head turned away while the plumber got on with the job.
It must have been about three-quarters of a mile back to the Institute, and I carried her most of the way. But even quite a small person feels like Tessie O'Shea after about the
first hundred yards. And it doesn't make things any easier when you're trying to hurry. She did give a little moan occasionally when I couldn't avoid jogging her. But that was the fault of the fog mostly. Visibility had now closed in to about fifteen feet, and I had to keep on stopping just to see which way I was carrying her.
I was feeling safer every moment now. But apparently Una wasn't. And now that it was all over, the effects of delayed shock were showing up text-book fashion. She was as cold as a dead bather. Also she was trembling. When she felt me pause for a moment and look round to see if we were being followed, she suddenly went all to pieces. Hitching her good arm round my neck as though she were trying to strangle me, she started whimpering. Not that I blamed her. No girl likes being shot at twice on one afternoon.
The Institute itself couldn't have been more than three or four hundred yards away by now. And that was good enough for me. I let out a shout. And, a moment later, I heard an answering call from somewhere out in front of me. I wasn't sorry. The way things were going, Una would find herself carrying me before we'd get much farther.
I must have been nervier than I realised. And I gave a jump like a scared kitten when a figure suddenly appeared out of the mist not more than ten or twelve feet away from me. But the effect was certainly weird enough to make anybody jump. That was because the figure was dressed all in white. It was like a ghost in an old-fashioned Christmas supplement. And, as it came, it flashed a light on us.
“You there? Where are you?” I heard the voice calling out again.
Then I recognised it. It was Gillett's voice. And he was still wearing his long white overall. Evidently he had come straight out of the lab. to look for us. And, as he was
naturally an efficient sort of chap, he had brought the Institute's inspection lamp along with him.