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  “I know,” said I, “but somebody’s got to do yours.”

  “I haven’t a job. I’m only a dictaphone.”

  “But not for long,” said I.

  “That’s up to you. Goodbye.”

  Before I could say ‘Goodbye,’ she had hung her receiver up.

  The next day, in my zeal, I did a ridiculous thing. I thought it would be imprudent to haunt for two days running the purlieus of Sermon Square; so I took a binocular with me and climbed the winding stair to the top of The Monument. I had hoped from this high place to be able to gain some knowledge which, lest I attracted attention, I dared not seek from below: in other words, I had hoped to survey at leisure some one of the outside walls of 22 Sermon Square. (These walls were three, because, as I have shown, the house was the last of its row: one was facing the square, one the church and its yard, and one a seven-foot passage, called Tulip Lane.) Only a fool would have harboured a hope so vain: but I was more used to the country than to the puzzles which bricks and mortar can set.

  Had it not been for the church, I should never have even located the square I sought, for I saw next to nothing but roofs and I could not even follow the lines of the streets I knew. The church, as luck would have it, I saw very well, because from where I stood I was looking up Sermon Square: and for that same reason, of course, the walls which I wished to survey were wholly obscured from my view. In a word, I stood west of the house: and the West was the only quarter from which it could never be seen.

  I could see no other eminence, likely to serve my turn – except, of course, my landmark, the church of St Ives. This, I knew, must command the whole of one of the walls – and must itself be commanded by every single window that faced that way. But for this fatal defect, it would have done wonderfully well, and if visitors were not permitted to prove the leads, four great down-pipes, like ladders, were waiting there to be climbed.

  With a sigh, I put up my glasses and thrust temptation away…

  At five o’clock that evening I went to the club, to find a letter from Mansel which did me good.

  We had champagne last night, on purpose to drink your health. From every point of view, the job you have managed to get is better than any other that I can spell.

  I’m going to give you one week in which to form your habits and settle down. Please use it faithfully – and think of nothing at all but the work you are paid to do. And then we’ll get down to things.

  That day the inquest on George St Omer was held. No one had seen the smash: and, in view of the evidence given, no one could blame the jury for bringing in the verdict they did. ‘Accidental Death.’ Indeed, so far as I know, nobody ever remarked that his injuries might have been caused by a violent assault. There was no reason why they should. The job had been very well done.

  The evening papers, of course, reported the proceedings in full, and, as much because of their headlines as anything else, I was very reluctant to ring Lady Audrey up. But I had to acknowledge the letter which I had received, so at seven o’clock I went to the telephone.

  As before, she answered herself.

  “Is that John Bagot?”

  “To let you know,” said I, “that he got a letter tonight.”

  “I see. What’s the City like?”

  “Quiet,” said I. “It’s Saturday afternoon.”

  “It will be still quieter tomorrow.”

  “No doubt about that.”

  “Then take a day off,” says she. “I mean what I say.”

  “I understand. Till Monday.”

  “What did you do today?”

  “I wasted my time,” said I.

  “That’s my prerogative.”

  “I don’t agree,” said I.

  “Of course you don’t. ‘What’s Hecuba to him?’”

  “‘Or he to Hecuba?’”

  I heard her draw in her breath.

  Then—

  “Have you ever watched a fool untying a knot?”

  “Not for long,” said I.

  “Exactly,” says she. “Well, that’s what I’m doing now.”

  “I take it,” said I, “I’m the fool.”

  “It’s not your fault, John Bagot; but what do you know? How can an unskilled man do a skilled man’s job?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s terribly trying for you. But I’m going to get there somehow.”

  Lady Audrey sighed.

  “Oh, dear, you do mean so well. Never mind. Till Monday, then.”

  “Till Monday,” said I. “If anything happens—”

  “Nothing will happen,” said she. “Be sure of that. Nothing will ever happen. There’s no reason why it should.”

  Before I could make any answer, she had cut off.

  I returned to the smoking-room, smarting from the cuts she had dealt me, yet glad in a way to have been her whipping boy. After all, it hadn’t harmed me; and if it had done her good…

  Mansel, of course, was right to forbid me to come to the City the following day. It would have made me conspicuous. As like as not, on Sundays no members entered the City Conservative Club. Not more than half a dozen were in it now.

  It was now a quarter past seven, and since I was there, I decided to dine in the club. So I sent for a glass of sherry and lighted a cigarette and then read once again the dialogue of the play which had been presented near Bedford that afternoon.

  How many people, I wondered, knew that it was a drama which had been produced? A dozen, perhaps, in the world. The players themselves had no idea they were acting – gravely speaking the lines which had been put into their mouths. Inspector, surgeon and earnest constable: St Omer’s cousin and heir: the pompous coroner ‘and his disciples twelve’ – all of them saying their pieces, according to plan. And the whole of the British public shaking its head and lapping the nonsense up…

  Little wonder that, facing these facts, Lady Audrey Nuneham was not at her best.

  After an excellent dinner, I left the club about ten, proposing to walk for a while and then pick up a cab.

  The streets were so empty and quiet that it would have been asking for trouble to go through Sermon Square; but there seemed to be nothing against my walking down Tulip Lane, for though, in fact, it was slightly out of my way, no one I met would know that and, as a convenient short cut, it was very much used.

  Now, as I have shown already, 22 Sermon Square backed on to Tulip Lane, which means that the lane ran parallel with the square. But whereas the square was cut short by St Ives’ churchyard, the latter, so to speak, gave way to the lane, which ran on past its railings and past the door of the church.

  Turning into Tulip Lane, I lifted my head.

  One glance was more than enough.

  Every window on either side was dark and most were fitted with reflectors, which, though no doubt they lighted the rooms they served, effectually screened those chambers from curious eyes.

  I walked on down the lane, proposing to stop and look round when I came to the door of the church, for from there I knew I could see the whole of the flank of 22 Sermon Square. But I never got so far, for before I had reached the railings which fenced the churchyard, I saw to my surprise a light in the church.

  I slackened my pace, staring.

  And then I saw my mistake.

  It was not a light in the church. One of the stained-glass panes was reflecting the light from a window of 22 Sermon Square.

  I think it was then that I saw that what is dangerous by day may be safe by night and that, now that darkness was come, no one could see a man on the leads of the church. And a man on the leads of the church could command the room that was lighted in 22 Sermon Square.

  As I came to the churchyard railings, I glanced behind. So far as I could see, I had the lane to myself.

  The railings were high enough, but I covered two spikes with my hat and clambered over this not very promising stile. Stooping low, I moved between tombstones and over, I fear, a good many unmarked graves, but I hoped that the dead would f
orgive me because, after all, I was seeking to serve one of them. And then at last I came to the wall of the church – and an elegant flying buttress to hide me from Tulip Lane.

  I set my back to the wall and took my first look at the window from which the light came.

  To my delight, I could see clean into the room, but since this was two floors up and not twenty paces away, I could only see the ceiling from where I stood. But the window was not so high up as the leads of the church, so that if I could only climb up there before the light was put out, I ought to be able to see all there was to be seen.

  With that, I turned to the down-pipe I knew was at hand, thanking my stars that I had surveyed by daylight the way which I meant to go.

  Looking back, I remember that I was possessed with a fear that the light in the room would go out before I could reach the leads. What I thought I was going to see, I have no idea. I do not believe that I ever got so far. And that, no doubt, was as well, for if I had questioned the instinct which ordered me up to the leads, I think that I must have seen how childish the enterprise was. Though I saw five men in the room, I should have gained nothing at all, because I had nothing to tell me if they were the men I sought. But, as I say, I never thought of these things. My one idea was to see right into that room.

  The down-pipe was square-shaped and massive and was stoutly tied to the wall every five or six feet, and since it was flanked by windows the stone frames of which were carved, to climb it was just as easy as I had supposed: indeed I deserve little credit for anything done that night, and I even remember cursing because I had not thought to take my binocular off – the soldier cursing because he has remembered his sword.

  Be that as it may, I managed to gain the leads, and there sitting down behind the open-work screen, which served for a parapet, I could see straight into the room, which belonged to the second floor of 22 Sermon Square.

  A man was sitting at a table, under a powerful light. I could not see what he was doing, except that he seemed to be sitting back in his chair: but I saw that his hair was white, or else very grey.

  All at once I thought of the glasses – which, had I not been so hasty, I should have left behind.

  These were very powerful; and after a little adjustment, they brought the man so close I could see the ring on the hand with which he was stroking his chin, I never saw him full face, for to me he was sitting sideways and he never looked round: but the view which I had of his profile left nothing to be desired.

  It was the kindly face of a man of some sixty summers in excellent health. He was clean-shaven; his thick hair was nearly white, and his colour was fresh: his features were rough, but strong: and he made me think of an old-fashioned, country parson of whom his parish is not only fond, but proud. That he had a sense of humour was perfectly clear, for he was reading some paper and smiling at what he read. Indeed, once or twice he literally shook with mirth, and I found myself laughing with him, so honest and unaffected was his merriment.

  Then he turned over a page, and I saw that the paper before him was The Evening News.

  Now, as I have shown, I had had the best of reasons to study the papers that night, and I was ready to swear that there was no humorous matter upon the front page of the paper which I have named. Two columns had been devoted to the inquest upon poor George, and the coroner’s vivid account of what he presumed had occurred had been taken out of its place and printed in heavy type…

  I have no excuse to offer. I never saw – even then. But when, some two minutes later, my genial friend returned to the paper’s front page and, taking a pair of scissors, cut out the two columns and the head-line which stretched across the whole of the sheet, then the scales fell from my eyes and I knew that he was the man, to find and to spy upon whom was all the object I had in coming to Sermon Square.

  3: I Wait for the Stroke

  The discovery shook me so much that I began to tremble from head to foot and I could not hold steady the glasses to which I owed all that I knew: but I watched him cut out the rest of the full report, fold the two cuttings together and then slide them into a buff-coloured envelope. Then he picked up a pen and addressed it and sealed it up, and I think there can be no doubt that that night it went to Barabbas, wherever he was.

  Now, if I had had any sense, I should have left the leads without any delay, for now I had only to watch the door of the house and, if I could do so safely, to follow him when he came out: but although he left his table, I sat there watching until the light was put out, and then, of course, I knew that my chance was gone and that I must stay where I was, for the downpipe was not a staircase and he would be out of the house before I was down from the leads.

  A street lamp was lighting the doorway of 22 Sermon Square, and I saw him come out and look round and then walk across to the passage which led to Mark Lane.

  I will not dwell on the feelings with which I watched the monster pass out of my sight, whilst I sat on the other side of the gulf I had fixed between us in my stupidity. But at least this blunder showed me how much I had yet to learn and that I should be worse than useless, unless I was ever ready to take up the running when Fortune had done her share.

  I had won something, of course, but, had I but used my wits, I might have won so much more that I could take no pleasure in what I had done: and when, descending my down-pipe, I thought of the disappointment which Mansel and Chandos would hide, I could have done myself violence for what I had failed to do. Then I thought of Lady Audrey – and nearly fell down the twelve feet between me and the turf.

  She would show me no mercy. She had chastised me with whips: but now she would chastise me with scorpions. ‘A fool untying a knot’ – and before the night was out I had proved the truth of her words. I could bear the scorpions as I had borne the whips; but I did not want her to beat me; I wanted myself to force the scorn from her face and set in its stead a look of gratitude. In my heart I valued her censure more highly than Mansel’s praise; but I wanted her just admiration – because I admired her so much.

  I looked no further than that. For one thing, she was in mourning for one of the finest fellows I ever knew, and though she might put off her sackcloth after a while – well, when a girl has worn emeralds, she takes little interest in jade. Then, again, I had no money, except my twelve thousand pounds; and she was bred to grace Peerless and not some land agent’s lodge. And so I was not such a fool as to harbour the faintest hope. But Fate had kicked me upstairs and fairly thrust me into my lady’s chamber, and, since I was there, I wanted to win her smile. If I liked to adore her, that was my private affair. But I did not wish her simply to suffer my presence because I had been introduced by somebody greater than she.

  The prey of these selfish emotions, I stumbled through the churchyard and back into Tulip Lane, for though I was tempted to climb into Sermon Square and take, for what it was worth, the way which my man had taken eight minutes before, I had seen three policemen go by whilst I was up on the leads, and as my end of Sermon Square was very much better lighted than Tulip Lane, it would have been asking for trouble to go that way.

  Once in the lane, I hastened round the block into Sermon Square, but of course the passage was empty and, though I walked down Mark Lane and then, turning west, all the way to Ludgate Hill, the man I wanted to see was not to be seen.

  The incident being over, I knew that I must report it as soon as I could. When all was said and done, I had some valuable news: to suppress it for forty-eight hours would be the act of a fool and, what was still more to the point, my tale was not one I could tell on the telephone.

  After a lot of thinking, I rang up Lady Audrey from Charing Cross, and fifty minutes later, in obedience to her instructions, I took a train from Paddington, travelling west.

  When the train was well under way, I left my seat and walked down the corridor. Mansel’s servant, Carson, was standing outside a compartment the blinds of which were drawn down, and as soon as he saw me approaching, he opened the door.

 
; Without a word, I went in, and there were Mansel and Chandos and Lady Audrey herself.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mansel, “to be so hard of access, but Carson says I’m being watched, and he’s usually right. Well, that doesn’t matter to me, but it matters to us. And that’s where a train comes in. If you’ve got a ticket waiting and you run it sufficiently fine, you can always steal a march by taking a train. And now we should love to hear what it is you know.”

  I told what there was to tell, while the train slid out of the suburbs and into the countryside and the three sat still as death, with their eyes on my face.

  When I came to the end—

  “I’m most awfully sorry,” I said. “I see the mistake I made and I’ve no excuse. If I’d had the sense of a louse—”

  “What would you have done?” said Mansel.

  “Left the leads,” said I, “the moment I realized that he was our man: lain in the grass by the railings, until he came out of the house: watched which way he went: and then whipped over the railings and followed behind.”

  “I see,” said Mansel. “And now I’m not going to spare you – I’m going to put it across you once for all. You have done magnificently: but when you talk like that, you not only talk as a fool, but you scare me stiff. If you had gone after that wallah, you would have torn everything up. I’ll tell you why. Because men like that are accustomed to being followed, but you are not accustomed to following men like that.”

  That was as much as he said, but his tone was very sharp and the blood came into my face: and there followed an awkward silence, which I did not know how to break.

  Then a hand came to rest on my arm.

  “What a shame,” said Lady Audrey. “He’s done so terribly well.”

  “More,” said Mansel, smiling. “He never answered me back.”

  “Neither did I,” said Chandos, “when you told me off in a meadow some years ago.”

  “In a word,” said Lady Audrey, “my record is safe.”