The Bat that Flits (8 page)

Then he began to get rough. He picked up the free drink and emptied it on to the floor beside him. And, in doing so, he upset mine as well. And I still think that it was to my credit that I should have taken it all so calmly. I behaved in correct U.N.O. fashion, and merely tabled a vote of censure before getting down to anything like counter-violence.

“Are you aware, sir,” I asked, intoning as precisely as if I were in a church dramatic society, “that you have spilt my drink?”

It was obvious from the way the sailor took the remark that he was aware. He thrust his face close up to mine.

“Washermatterwivyou?” he demanded.

Having done so, he turned back to the girl beside him. And putting out a great red hand, he began pulling her about. That decided me. I saw then that I would have to intervene in an effort to resist aggression.

“Unless you stop mo-lest-ing that girl,” I heard myself saying slowly and rather beautifully, “I shall be forced to knock you down.”

The gallant, or Old Virginian school, is one of the phases through which I always pass on these occasions. And this was merely me passing through it. The sailor, however, did not appear to be unduly cowed. Instead of replying, he caught hold of me by the lapels of my coat and began banging my head against the panelling behind me. I was a bit dizzy by the time I managed to struggle to my feet, but I still could see straight enough to hit him. As a matter of fact, I hit him rather hard. He fell back on to somebody else's table, and then the whole place became like Marseilles on VE night. There was broken glass everywhere. He came crunching through it as he made his way back towards me. Then, when I saw that he really meant business, I went into a clinch with him. That was what put us both on the floor together. And it was then that the girl started screaming.

I don't remember much more of that part. Because by now the sailor was propping me up in the crook of his left arm while he was hitting me with his right. Smash. Smash. Smash. I felt the first one, and merely counted the other two. Then I must have passed right out. When I came to again the girl was mopping at me with a handkerchief—my handkerchief, it turned out to be—and the landlord was saying: “Oo started it?”

It was only the evidence of the girl that saved me.

“This gentleman was just sitting by himself,” she said. “I know, because I saw him. Then Jim came along and socked him. I feel ever so ashamed of Jim, really, I do.”

We left shortly after that, and the girl put her arm through mine. What I needed, she said, was taking care of. And she strongly recommended me to have one more just to settle
my nerves. So we went into another pub, and sat quietly holding hands. We didn't stop long, however, because we could see the top of Jim's head over one of the partitions. He was going over the whole episode, and was describing exactly what would happen to me if he ever saw me again. We neither of us liked the sound of it. And when we had got outside again, the girl suggested that as it was so late I had better go back with her.

It was still quite early when I woke up next morning. And I have noticed that when I have been well and truly soused the night before I always wake up an hour or so earlier than usual—which means that I don't miss even a single moment of the hangover.

In the circumstances, I behaved with considerable dignity and self-restraint. Knowing that my little friend of last night was watching me from behind the bedclothes, I assumed an air of easy and tranquillising nonchalance. Going over to her mirror, I first of all examined the eye that the sailor had bunged up for me. Then I put on last night's collar and combed my hair down.

The mistake that my companion made was in sitting up on one elbow to say good-bye. She had the sort of good looks that get better as the evening grows later. Seen in the dawnlight, there was the disconcerting appearance of something that had just been dredged up from the bottom of the Sound. I was glad that I had spent the night in the armchair.

I caught the first Torpoint ferry of the day. And I was back in Bodmin by nine. But the actual homecoming wasn't exactly what I had expected. Naturally I didn't go up to the front gate. Instead, I swung in at the side entrance and garaged the car in the coach-house where I always kept it. I was just heaving my legs out over the coachwork when somebody stepped forward. It was a policeman, and just behind him was standing an inspector.

“Good morning, officers,” I said, speaking a trifle on the loud side, as I always do when I am trying to appear bluff and hearty. “You're quite right. It is out of date. But the new one's in the post. Very smart of you to detect it. I'm afraid this licence business must give you an awful lot of extra work.”

The constable looked a bit taken aback and confused at that. He began passing his tongue backwards and forwards across his lips as though they didn't work properly when dry. But the Inspector was a different kind of animal altogether. If I had caught his eye a little earlier I might even have dropped my voice instead of raising it. It was a cold, ice-like eye.

“Dr. Hudson?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Would you mind, sir, accompanying me to the Director's office?” he asked.

It was one of those polite commands that are all the more commanding for being so polite.

But I was doing some pretty quick thinking.

“Anything wrong, officer?” I said.

And the reply was the usual one.

“Just a few questions we'd like to ask you, sir.”

Nothing very revealing in that. But also nothing very reassuring. Nothing very reassuring either in the fact that
he asked the constable to stand by the car and not leave it until he had come back again. Inside me, I felt a cold patch developing.

And, as soon as I saw the Director, I knew that something really serious must have occurred. He was sitting at his table, hairy and miserable, with his chin supported in his hands. He looked like the Forsaken Merman. And I can't say that his face brightened up when he saw mine. Not that this surprised me. I hadn't brightened up myself when I had seen my own face.

Then I noticed something else. The whole Institute seemed to be exuding policemen this morning. There was one standing over in the corner just behind me.

The Inspector got down to work straight away.

“Would you mind telling us where you spent last night?” he asked.

That was awkward. I had come down to Bodmin to make a fresh start. And I had seen enough to know that the Director was the kind of keen family man who might not like the idea of having his assistants temporarily occupying top rooms in Plymouth.

So I started lying.

“As a matter of fact, I slept in the car,” I said.

“Why did you do that?”

“I'd drunk rather too much cider,” I said. “When I'd had the second half-pint I decided it was safer not to risk anything. So I just parked the car and dossed down.”

“Where was that?”

“In a lane.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Oh, about thirty miles from here. Say thirty-five. I didn't measure it.”

“Can you name anywhere it was near?”

I paused.

“It was between Okehampton and Exeter,” I said finally. “On the left as you go up.”

At that moment I accidentally caught the Inspector's eye, and then avoided it again.

“Okehampton and Exeter are about twenty-five miles away from each other,” he told me.

“You don't say,” I answered.

“Well, can you be a bit more exact?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry,” I said. “If I'd known you'd be interested I'd have looked it up for you.”

“Well, can you describe the spot?”

“Oh, yes,” I said confidently, “I can do that. There was a sort of hedge on one side and a gate on the other. I'd know it at once because there was a haystack just a bit farther on. And a tree. I'm practically certain there was a tree.”

“It must have been cold in the car, wasn't it?”

“Nice of you to ask,” I said. “As a matter of fact, it was.”

“Did it rain?”

“I was asleep,” I answered.

“There isn't any hood on your car, is there, sir?”

“No,” I said. “That's another thing.”

“Were you wet?”

“Very,” I said. “The dew's terrible in these parts. Especially at night. I wonder nobody's done anything about it.”

“Were you alone?”

“All the time.”

“See anyone you knew?”

“Didn't even see anyone I didn't know. I've told you: I was asleep.”

“How did you hurt your eye?”

“Fell against the windscreen.”

“Can you remember the name of the public house you went into?”

I paused.

“Well, I can't be sure,” I said. “But no doubt you can check it. I think it was The George. Or it may have been the Duke of Something. Or possibly The Chequers. There are such a lot of pubs, aren't there? It wouldn't surprise me if you said it was The Crown.”

The Inspector drew in a deep breath as though he needed one.

“Are you ready to sign what you just told me?” he asked.

“Pencil, please,” I answered.

It wasn't until I had joined the others in the common room that I learnt what all the fuss was about. And, when I did learn, I didn't like it. During yesterday evening somebody had opened up the Old Man's safe and made off with the one slope that counted for anything. In short, Gillett's culture was missing.

There were some strangely glassy-looking eyes all round me. But that may have been because nobody was allowed either to enter the building or leave it. The entering part didn't matter. But the not-leaving-it bit was different. It doesn't take more than about five minutes for a normal healthy man to develop a sense of claustrophobia. And some of the people weren't exactly what I would call healthy and normal to begin with. There was little Dr. Mann, for
instance. He was behaving as though he had still got the missing culture hidden on him somewhere.

“Now, it is terrible,” he said. “Like a prison camp.”

“Well, let's hope they soon find it,” I said. “There won't be any let-up till they've got it back again.”

But that didn't suit him either.

“It will only be good if they never find it,” he replied. “Never. Never.”

“Don't say it so loud,” I advised him. “If you do they may take you up on suspicion.”

Dr. Mann turned several shades paler. His face went turnip colour. This was most disturbing, but it was turnip-shaped already.

“Why me?” he asked. “Please say that you do not mean me. It could not be me. I can account for myself all the time, no? It is very frightening when there are police.”

It was Hilda who tried to soothe him. But she wasn't looking her best this morning. She was pale, and had shadows under her eyes. A person who's just had an entirely sleepless night might look rather that way.

“But our police aren't frightening, really they're not,” she said. “They only want to find out everything.”

The Dioscuri apparently thought differently, however. Swanton was the first to speak.

“Why not call it a Police State and be done with it?” he demanded of no one in particular. “It's much better calling things by their proper names.”

Kimbell ran his fingers through his hair-fuzz, and nodded approvingly.

“Our friend here”—he indicated Dr. Mann, who recoiled visibly as soon as he saw that stained finger-nail pointing at him—“will soon be able to see the wonderful British police
force at close quarters. They'll be arresting me next for playing chess with a foreigner. Then we can all compare notes.” He turned to me as he was speaking. “Have you been done yet?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Rubber truncheons, pins under the nails, and all the rest of it,” I told him. “But they didn't get anything out of me.”

It occurred to me afterwards that perhaps rubber truncheons and torture-chambers weren't really so very funny to the Dr. Manns of this world. But it was too late now. The door had just opened and the Director's secretary stood there.

“Dr. Mann,” she said. “Would you mind going over to see the Director, please?”

It was impossible to get down to any really serious work while the Gestapo stuff was still going on in the Institute. In the result, we packed up and spent the next few hours of Government time simply talking things over. Hilda and the demure one had both withdrawn. We were thus just one big unhappy stag party. And there were one or two quite interesting side-lights on human nature by the time we had finished.

For a start, young Mellon was obviously feeling rather pre-occupied about something.

“Say,” he asked at last, “are those guys thorough? D'you reckon they check up on what you tell them?”

“The English police force,” I said slowly, “is the mother of all the police forces in the world. If you think you've made the least slip in anything that you may have said to them I should correct it now before it's too late. They're always ready to make allowances for carelessness. But deliberate lying—never.”

Mellon began fingering his gold lighter-cum-cigarette case.
It was a very comprehensive piece of Fifth Avenue jewellery, and looked as though there might be a portable wireless built into it somewhere.

“Aw, hell,” he said. “It isn't that. I told 'em all right. It's just that I don't want the dame's husband drawn in. We haven't ever been introduced socially you see.”

Dr. Smith raised his eyebrows.

“You'd much better call your lawyers,” he advised. “But, in any case, the Embassy will probably stand by you. They can always plead diplomatic privilege if it comes to it.”

“But not matrimonial.” It was Bansted who had spoken. He looked more than ever like a bank manager to-day. “I happened to run into an old friend of my wife's yesterday,” he went on. “Purely accidental, of course. Hadn't seen her for years. But it could look bad, all the same. I know just how Mellon's feeling.”