The Thirty-Nine Steps (3 page)

Next day he was much more cheerful, and read the life of Stonewall Jackson much of
the time. I went out to dinner with a mining engineer I had got to see on business,
and came back about half-past ten in time for our game of chess before turning in.

I had a cigar in my mouth, I remember, as I pushed open the smoking-room door. The
lights were not lit, which struck me as odd. I wondered if Scudder had turned in already.

I snapped the switch, but there was nobody there. Then I saw something in the far
corner which made me drop my cigar and fall into a cold sweat.

My guest was lying sprawled on his back. There was a long knife through his heart
which skewered him to the floor.

I sat down in an armchair and felt very sick. That lasted for maybe five minutes,
and was succeeded by a fit of the horrors. The poor staring white face on the floor
was more than I could bear, and I managed to get a table-cloth and cover it. Then
I staggered to a cupboard, found the brandy and swallowed several mouthfuls. I had
seen men die violently before; indeed I had killed a few myself in the Matabele War;
but this cold-blooded indoor business was different. Still I managed to pull myself
together. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was half-past ten.

An idea seized me, and I went over the flat with a small-tooth comb. There was nobody
there, nor any trace of anybody, but I shuttered and bolted all the windows and put
the chain on the door. By this time my wits were coming back to me, and I could think
again. It took me about an hour to figure the thing out, and I did not hurry, for,
unless the murderer came back, I had till about six o’clock in the morning for my
cogitations.

I was in the soup—that was pretty clear. Any shadow of a doubt I might have had about
the truth of Scudder’s tale was now gone. The proof of it was lying under the table-cloth.
The men who knew that he knew what he knew had found him, and had taken the best way
to make certain of his silence. Yes; but he had been in my rooms four days, and his
enemies must have reckoned that he had confided in me. So I would be the next to go.
It might be that very night, or next day, or the day after, but my number was up all
right.

Then suddenly I thought of another probability. Supposing I went out now and called
in the police, or went to bed and let Paddock find the body and call them in the morning.
What kind of a story was I to tell about Scudder? I had lied to Paddock about him,
and the whole thing looked desperately fishy. If I made a clean breast of it and told
the police everything he had told me, they would simply laugh at me. The odds were
a thousand to one that I would be charged with the murder, and the circumstantial
evidence was strong enough to hang me. Few people knew me in England; I had no real
pal who could come forward and swear to my character. Perhaps that was what those
secret enemies were playing for. They were clever enough for anything, and an English
prison was as good a way of getting rid of me till after June 15th as a knife in my
chest.

Besides, if I told the whole story, and by any miracle was believed, I would be playing
their game. Karolides would stay at home, which was what they wanted. Somehow or other
the sight of Scudder’s dead face had made me a passionate believer in his scheme.
He was gone, but he had taken me into his confidence, and I was pretty well bound
to carry on his work.

You may think this ridiculous for a man in danger of his life, but that was the way
I looked at it. I am an ordinary sort of fellow, not braver than other people, but
I hate to see a good man downed, and that long knife would not be the end of Scudder
if I could play the game in his place.

It took me an hour or two to think this out, and by that time I had come to a decision.
I must vanish somehow, and keep vanished till the end of the second week in June.
Then I must somehow find a way to get in touch with the Government people and tell
them what Scudder had told me. I wished to Heaven he had told me more, and that I
had listened more carefully to the little he had told me. I knew nothing but the barest
facts. There was a big risk that, even if I weathered the other dangers, I would not
be believed in the end. I must take my chance of that, and hope that something might
happen which would confirm my tale in the eyes of the Government.

My first job was to keep going for the next three weeks. It was now the 24th day of
May, and that meant twenty days of hiding before I could venture to approach the powers
that be. I reckoned that two sets of people would be looking for me—Scudder’s enemies
to put me out of existence, and the police, who would want me for Scudder’s murder.
It was going to be a giddy hunt, and it was queer how the prospect comforted me. I
had been slack so long that almost any chance of activity was welcome. When I had
to sit alone with that corpse and wait on Fortune I was no better than a crushed worm,
but if my neck’s safety was to hang on my own wits I was prepared to be cheerful about
it.

My next thought was whether Scudder had any papers about him to give me a better clue
to the business. I drew back the table-cloth and searched his pockets, for I had no
longer any shrinking from the body. The face was wonderfully calm for a man who had
been struck down in a moment. There was nothing in the breast-pocket, and only a few
loose coins and a cigar-holder in the waistcoat. The trousers held a little penknife
and some silver, and the side pocket of his jacket contained an old crocodile-skin
cigar-case. There was no sign of the little black book in which I had seen him making
notes. That had no doubt been taken by his murderer.

But as I looked up from my task I saw that some drawers had been pulled out in the
writing-table. Scudder would never have left them in that state, for he was the tidiest
of mortals. Someone must have been searching for something—perhaps for the pocket-book.

I went round the flat and found that everything had been ransacked—the inside of books,
drawers, cupboards, boxes, even the pockets of the clothes in my wardrobe, and the
sideboard in the dining-room. There was no trace of the book. Most likely the enemy
had found it, but they had not found it on Scudder’s body.

Then I got out an atlas and looked at a big map of the British Isles. My notion was
to get off to some wild district, where my veldcraft would be of some use to me, for
I would be like a trapped rat in a city. I considered that Scotland would be best,
for my people were Scotch and I could pass anywhere as an ordinary Scotsman. I had
half an idea at first to be a German tourist, for my father had had German partners,
and I had been brought up to speak the tongue pretty fluently, not to mention having
put in three years prospecting for copper in German Damaraland. But I calculated that
it would be less conspicuous to be a Scot, and less in a line with what the police
might know of my past. I fixed on Galloway as the best place to go. It was the nearest
wild part of Scotland, so far as I could figure it out, and from the look of the map
was not over thick with population.

A search in Bradshaw informed me that a train left St Pancras at 7.10, which would
land me at any Galloway station in the late afternoon. That was well enough, but a
more important matter was how I was to make my way to St Pancras, for I was pretty
certain that Scudder’s friends would be watching outside. This puzzled me for a bit;
then I had an inspiration, on which I went to bed and slept for two troubled hours.

I got up at four and opened my bedroom shutters. The faint light of a fine summer
morning was flooding the skies, and the sparrows had begun to chatter. I had a great
revulsion of feeling, and felt a God-forgotten fool. My inclination was to let things
slide, and trust to the British police taking a reasonable view of my case. But as
I reviewed the situation I could find no arguments to bring against my decision of
the previous night, so with a wry mouth I resolved to go on with my plan. I was not
feeling in any particular funk; only disinclined to go looking for trouble, if you
understand me.

I hunted out a well-used tweed suit, a pair of strong nailed boots, and a flannel
shirt with a collar. Into my pockets I stuffed a spare shirt, a cloth cap, some handkerchiefs,
and a tooth-brush. I had drawn a good sum in gold from the bank two days before, in
case Scudder should want money, and I took fifty pounds of it in sovereigns in a belt
which I had brought back from Rhodesia. That was about all I wanted. Then I had a
bath, and cut my moustache, which was long and drooping, into a short stubbly fringe.

Now came the next step. Paddock used to arrive punctually at 7.30 and let himself
in with a latch-key. But about twenty minutes to seven, as I knew from bitter experience,
the milkman turned up with a great clatter of cans, and deposited my share outside
my door. I had seen that milkman sometimes when I had gone out for an early ride.
He was a young man about my own height, with an ill-nourished moustache, and he wore
a white overall. On him I staked all my chances.

I went into the darkened smoking-room where the rays of morning light were beginning
to creep through the shutters. There I breakfasted off a whisky-and-soda and some
biscuits from the cupboard. By this time it was getting on for six o’clock. I put
a pipe in My Pocket and filled my pouch from the tobacco jar on the table by the fireplace.

As I poked into the tobacco my fingers touched something hard, and I drew out Scudder’s
little black pocket-book …

That seemed to me a good omen. I lifted the cloth from the body and was amazed at
the peace and dignity of the dead face. ‘Goodbye, old chap,’ I said; ‘I am going to
do my best for you. Wish me well, wherever you are.’

Then I hung about in the hall waiting for the milkman. That was the worst part of
the business, for I was fairly choking to get out of doors. Six-thirty passed, then
six-forty, but still he did not come. The fool had chosen this day of all days to
be late.

At one minute after the quarter to seven I heard the rattle of the cans outside. I
opened the front door, and there was my man, singling out my cans from a bunch he
carried and whistling through his teeth. He jumped a bit at the sight of me.

‘Come in here a moment,’ I said. ‘I want a word with you.’ And I led him into the
dining-room.

‘I reckon you’re a bit of a sportsman,’ I said, ‘and I want you to do me a service.
Lend me your cap and overall for ten minutes, and here’s a sovereign for you.’

His eyes opened at the sight of the gold, and he grinned broadly. ‘Wot’s the gyme?’he
asked.

‘A bet,’ I said. ‘I haven’t time to explain, but to win it I’ve got to be a milkman
for the next ten minutes. All you’ve got to do is to stay here till I come back. You’ll
be a bit late, but nobody will complain, and you’ll have that quid for yourself.’

‘Right-o!’ he said cheerily. ‘I ain’t the man to spoil a bit of sport. ’Ere’s the
rig, guv’nor.’

I stuck on his flat blue hat and his white overall, picked up the cans, banged my
door, and went whistling downstairs. The porter at the foot told me to shut my jaw,
which sounded as if my make-up was adequate.

At first I thought there was nobody in the street. Then I caught sight of a policeman
a hundred yards down, and a loafer shuffling past on the other side. Some impulse
made me raise my eyes to the house opposite, and there at a first-floor window was
a face. As the loafer passed he looked up, and I fancied a signal was exchanged.

I crossed the street, whistling gaily and imitating the jaunty swing of the milkman.
Then I took the first side street, and went up a left-hand turning which led past
a bit of vacant ground. There was no one in the little street, so I dropped the milk-cans
inside the hoarding and sent the cap and overall after them. I had only just put on
my cloth cap when a postman came round the corner. I gave him good morning and he
answered me unsuspiciously. At the moment the clock of a neighbouring church struck
the hour of seven.

There was not a second to spare. As soon as I got to Euston Road I took to my heels
and ran. The clock at Euston Station showed five minutes past the hour. At St Pancras
I had no time to take a ticket, let alone that I had not settled upon my destination.
A porter told me the platform, and as I entered it I saw the train already in motion.
Two station officials blocked the way, but I dodged them and clambered into the last
carriage.

Three minutes later, as we were roaring through the northern tunnels, an irate guard
interviewed me. He wrote out for me a ticket to Newton-Stewart, a name which had suddenly
come back to my memory, and he conducted me from the first-class compartment where
I had ensconced myself to a third-class smoker, occupied by a sailor and a stout woman
with a child. He went off grumbling, and as I mopped my brow I observed to my companions
in my broadest Scots that it was a sore job catching trains. I had already entered
upon my part.

‘The impidence o’ that gyaird!’ said the lady bitterly. ‘He needit a Scotch tongue
to pit him in his place. He was complainin’ o’ this wean no haein’ a ticket and her
no fower till August twalmonth, and he was objectin’ to this gentleman spittin’.’

The sailor morosely agreed, and I started my new life in an atmosphere of protest
against authority. I reminded myself that a week ago I had been finding the world
dull.