Traitor's Purse Page 2

  A smile of pure amusement twisted the mouth of the thin man in the oilskins. This was so disastrous that it was ridiculous. This was attempted cat burglary on roller-skates. The odds against him were immeasurably too great. He had no chance even to run for it in these colossal boots.

  A side turning yawning in the darkness on his left decided him and he swung round into it for a final spurt. The driver behind him overshot the corner and a flicker of hope flashed through his mind, but before he had reached the next road junction the following car was back on his trail again.

  The open country took him by surprise. The hospital must have been nearer the outskirts of the town than he had imagined. It was coming now, he supposed as he drove down a tunnel of bare trees into the lonely darkness beyond. They must make their arrest at any moment now, and he prepared himself for them to shoot past him and stop. But meanwhile there seemed no point in pulling up himself and he continued on through deeply wooded country with his silent attendant just behind him.

  As the minutes passed his resignation gave place to nervous irritation and he drove squarely in the middle of the road. Whenever a convenient turning presented itself he took it, but always his companion followed him. If he eluded the car for a moment or so by some adroit piece of driving, invariably it put on speed and caught up with him again.

  He seemed to travel for hours, even for weeks. It was bitterly cold and his mind, which was in darkness save for the one single pinpoint of illumination which was the immediate present, appeared to him for the first time as a machine independent of himself and about as unsatisfactory as the car he drove.

  The dreadful thudding between the back wheels was now deafening. His speed had slackened considerably also and the engine was missing on at least one cylinder. A sudden dip in the road was his undoing. He hit the watersplash at the bottom without seeing it and a wall of spray rose up over him, rushed in through the radiator and obscured the windscreen. The engine coughed apologetically and died.

  He sat where he was. After the crashing of the big-end the silence was sweet but uncanny. He waited. Nothing happened.

  The clouds had cleared a little and in the moonlight he could see on either side of him low hedges, and beyond, the dark spikes of an osier bed. There was not a breath of wind, not a rustle. It was as still and cold as the bottom of the sea.

  He turned his head cautiously and peered through the rear window. The other car was in its familiar place, a few yards behind him. It too was stationary and there was no telling who sat behind that single downcast headlamp.

  Then, as he watched it, the car began to move. Very slowly it crawled down the road behind him, turned its long sleek body gently to one side, and, entering the water so quietly that there was hardly a ripple, it came up close to him so that the driving seat was on a level with his own.

  III

  THE SIDE WINDOWS of the two cars slid down simultaneously and the man in the fireman’s coat braced himself to meet whatever was coming.

  ‘Would you care for a lift by any chance?’

  The question, put with a certain grave politeness, came quietly out of the darkness in a clear young voice which might have belonged to some nice child.

  ‘Do you know where we are? We’re relying on you. I hope you realize that.’

  The second voice, which was elderly and querulous besides being practically in his ear, startled half the life out of him, it was so close.

  ‘Driving at night is difficult at the best of times,’ it rambled on hollowly, ‘and night comes so early this time of year. I must have hunted over this country as a young man, but that’s many years ago. Many. I don’t know what road we’re on at all.’

  After a moment’s incredulous silence the explanation of this apparent hallucination occurred to the fugitive with a second shock. Whoever these good people were they either knew him or his car very well indeed. He replied cautiously, relying on his voice to identify him or not as the case might be.

  ‘I’m afraid this car has died,’ he said clearly and waited for their reaction.

  ‘With a beautiful smile on its bonnet, no doubt.’ The young voice sounded gently reproachful. ‘Do you mind getting in the back? Mr Anscombe is in the front with me. We shall all be rather late for dinner, I’m afraid, and I’ve phoned Lee once. Leave George’s car where it is.’

  The man who could not remember pricked up his ears. There had been definitely a warning emphasis on the Christian name.

  ‘Our George has a depraved taste in machinery,’ he remarked tentatively as he clambered out of the farther door and came round to the back of the second car. When he entered the warm darkness of the limousine the girl gave him the hint for which he had asked.

  ‘It’s not George’s taste, poor child. It’s his pocket,’ she said firmly. ‘Er – all undergraduates are a little trusting when confronted by a second-hand car salesman, aren’t they? Still, it was very nice of him to lend it to you. I’m so sorry I missed you. I was waiting in the vestibule and only caught a glimpse of you as you shot through and you’d started off in George’s car before I could catch you.’

  She let in the clutch as she spoke and they moved away into the darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry, too. Very silly of me,’ murmured the man in the oilskins. He was feeling his way very cautiously. Clearly they were on dangerous ground and now was not the time for explanations. Whoever this blessed girl was she was certainly helpful and appeared to rely on him to play up to her.

  He leant back among the cushions and strained his eyes in the darkness. Gradually he made out the two silhouettes against the windscreen. The girl was small but erect and the line of her shoulders was square, like a boy’s. Of course! She was the young woman with the heart-shaped face and the disconcertingly intelligent light brown eyes who had spoken to him in the hospital vestibule. She must have been trying to tell him that this car was by the gate. No wonder she was treating him now as if he were mentally deficient. So he was, God help him. So he was.

  The man who sat beside her was less definite in outline. He appeared to be a spreading bundle with a large head adorned by a flat cap which sat upon it like a lid. He turned presently and leant over the back.

  ‘Rather a disturbing adventure,’ he remarked conversationally. His windy voice was old and foolish but it was also dangerously inquisitive.

  The man in the back of the car hesitated.

  ‘It was, in a way,’ he said at last.

  ‘I know. I know.’ The old man was determined to talk, whatever the effort. ‘Still, you did your duty. There’s a great comfort in that. Probably the only thanks you’ll get out of it. A Good Samaritan…’

  ‘Is his own reward,’ supplied the girl without moving her head. ‘All the same,’ she went on carefully, ‘I don’t see what else you could have done. After all, if a stranger is polite enough to talk to one in a railway carriage and nutty enough to fall over one’s bag and stun himself in getting out the least one can do is to take him to hospital.’

  ‘I can think of less,’ said the old man, grunting into his muffler. ‘Can’t you, Campion?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can.’ The man in the back of the car was not thinking what he was saying. Campion, He seized on the name eagerly and tried to think that it was familiar. At first he was convinced that it was, and relief rushed over him. But the next moment he was not sure again and despair returned. It was an unnerving experience and he felt for a cigarette.

  Finding that he had no pockets, he leant forward automatically and discovered in the dark a packet and a lighter tucked into the case at the back of the front seat. He was actually smoking before he realized the significance of his behaviour. He must have known the cigarettes were there. He had taken one as naturally as if he had done it a hundred times before. The explanation was obvious. He had. He was in his own car.

  He lay back to think it over. His head was abominably sore but his mind was clear. It was only his memory which had deserted him and, if he could not remember, at least
he could put together what facts he had.

  The one clear conclusion to be drawn from present developments, he decided, was that he and the girl were up to something – or at least she certainly was. She was protecting him the whole time, feeding him with story after story and doing it very well, almost as though she were used to it. Perhaps she was.

  The conviction that she was his wife came slowly. The more he thought of it the more likely it became. Here she was, driving his car, looking after him like a mother, lying for him like a heroine. George’s car indeed! For the first time since he had recovered consciousness in the hospital ward he saw a ray of comfort in his prospect. The abysmal loneliness of his position was spanned. Apart from his tremendous relief he was also suddenly delighted and he peered at her again in the darkness.

  She drove very well, with confidence and with an unusual sympathy for the machine. He appreciated that. So many people approached the petrol engine as if it were something vindictive, to be mastered with daring and a firm hand. He liked her voice too. It was clear and well bred, without being affected, and it was also engagingly immature. Her face he could only just remember from his brief glimpse of her in the entrance hall of the hospital, but he liked the carriage of her head and the courage and dignity in those small square shoulders.

  His spirits rose. If she were his wife he was all right. It had gone through his mind once or twice that he might be a crook of some sort. The notion had so depressed him that he was inclined to discount it as unlikely on those very grounds. But he had opened the fire cupboard with the hairpin and there had been that mysterious remark about money made by the bobby to the nurse. Why should it have looked odd when he had been found with a lot of money on him? Why should the authorities have taken it for granted that he had slugged a policeman? Had anyone seen him do it? Had he done it? He did not feel a particularly violent man. What sort of person was he, anyway?

  The final question pulled him up with a start. He had no idea. Physically he appeared to be fairly tall and he was thin. He had plenty of hair and his teeth were his own. Without a mirror he could tell no more.

  His impression of the girl was that she was young, perhaps very young, and he considered the question of his own age thoughtfully. He was fit and, apart from a natural shakiness after his experience, which, whatever it had been, had left him with aching limbs and a reeling head, he felt fairly athletic. He wondered. He was clearly not a boy but, on the other hand, surely he was not old? Finally he plumped for twenty-nine. It was a nice age anyhow and he felt no more.

  He began to feel better, almost adventurous. The big car was brushing aside the miles and he had half persuaded himself that the police-slugging episode was part of some past delirium when the elderly man stirred himself.

  ‘I see where we are now,’ he said contentedly. ‘We must have come fifteen miles out of our way.’ He broke off abruptly and laughed, the silly little high-pitched giggle of a foolish old man. ‘I mean five miles, of course,’ he added clumsily. ‘I don’t know what made me say fifteen.’

  The man who had been told that his name was Campion glanced up sharply in the darkness and the shadowy tide of anxiety rolled up into his mind once more.

  ‘It’s not far now, anyway.’ The girl’s cool voice was comfortingly matter-of-fact. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Anscombe, we’ll put you down at your house and rush on to change. Aubrey has put the meal back to eight-thirty and we can’t in all decency be late. We’ll see you there, shan’t we?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I shall be there.’ The old man sounded enthusiastic. ‘I never miss an opportunity to dine at the Institute now that Aubrey is the skipper. I remember his predecessor, the great Doctor Hale. He was an able fellow but nothing like Aubrey. Lee Aubrey is one of the big men of our time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I think he may be. He’s not afraid to surround himself with brains.’

  Anscombe grunted. ‘A particularly brilliant man on his own account,’ he announced didactically. ‘We were more than lucky to get him here at Bridge. I remember the famous session when his appointment was announced to the Secret Conclave. As Hereditary Secretary to the Society I was very much congratulated, but I said “Don’t thank me, Masters of Bridge” – that’s the customary address, you know – “Don’t thank me. Thank the man himself for coming to us.”’

  He settled himself in his seat and sighed. It was clear to Campion that he was talking of matters very near his heart. Pride and more than a touch of pomposity glowed from him.

  Anscombe? The name meant nothing to Campion. But Bridge, and the Institute, struck a vaguely familiar note. He fancied that they were well-known terms, something he had heard about all his life.

  Presently the old man spoke again.

  ‘Aubrey is a wealthy man too, you know,’ he said. ‘It’s not generally known, but he donates the whole of his two thousand pound salary to some scholarship fund in the north. His private income must be considerable. Still, it suits him, you know. He has a unique position which no money in the world could buy, and a house which is virtually a museum-piece, also not for purchase. You’re comfortable there, aren’t you?’

  ‘Very. It’s a glorious house, isn’t it, Albert?’

  It took Campion some seconds to realize that she was talking to him, but his response, when it did come, was manfully enthusiastic.

  Mr Anscombe turned in his seat.

  ‘You’re tired,’ he said. ‘That experience of yours took it out of you. That sort of thing often does. London is exhausting, too. What are you wearing? A mackintosh? I can hear something rustling but I can’t see you. It’s very warm in here. Why don’t you take it off?’

  ‘No. I don’t think I will, thanks.’ To his horror he heard himself beginning to laugh, but again the girl came to his rescue.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ she said. ‘He’s in disgrace. He’s taken the wrong car, led us miles out of the way, and now he dozes off smelling like a bicycle shop. You’ll have to give up oilskins, Albert, at any rate for wear in a confined space. Still, we’re practically there. This is your gate, isn’t it, Mr Anscombe? You wouldn’t think it awfully rude of us if we didn’t take the car into the drive, would you?’

  ‘Oh of course not, of course not. I’m late myself. Thank you very much for all your kindness. I feel I forced myself on you this afternoon, but you’ve been so very good, so very good.’

  He was hoisting himself out of the low seat with difficulty as he spoke and his hollow foolish voice squeaked and trailed away as he landed himself safely on the pavement and closed the door. Through the window the remaining passenger caught a glimpse of him disappearing between high stucco pillars towards a steep dark house beyond.

  ‘Silly little man,’ said the girl suddenly. ‘He’s left his parcel. I shan’t be a moment. I’ll take it to him.’

  ‘That’s all right, I’ll do that,’ Campion said hastily, fumbling for the door handle.

  ‘You can’t in those clothes.’

  ‘Yes, I can. He won’t see me. Or if he does he’ll have to realize I’m an eccentric. Where’s his baggage?’

  She turned towards him in the darkness.

  ‘It’s books, I think,’ she said. ‘Here you are,’

  He took the square parcel and staggered out after the departing figure. It was brighter than he thought and he did not call to the man but came up the small drive quietly. The front door was already closed when he found it, and, rather than knock, he laid the package on the step and hurried down the drive to the waiting car again.

  With the departure of Anscombe the very car seemed more comfortable. The girl let in the clutch softly and they slid away. The man, who was still trying to remember if his name really was Albert Campion, leant forward. Now that he was alone with this delightful if unrecognizable wife of his he felt unexpectedly embarrassed about coming to the vital point. She was having such an extraordinary effect on him. He was so very glad of her, so childishly content and happy to find her. He wished to
God that she would take his head on her heart and let him go to sleep. It was ridiculous to have to ask her to tell him her name.

  ‘It is all very difficult,’ he began awkwardly.

  ‘I know.’ Her agreement was so heartfelt that it silenced him. ‘It’s frightful, and there’s absolutely no time to talk and get it straight. We’re here already and we daren’t be late, it’ll look so fishy.’

  She swung the car up a steep incline and through a columned gateway as she spoke.

  ‘I only found out where you were by a miracle. I’d been waiting down at the station as we arranged. I got rid of Anscombe until four o’clock, but after that I had to carry him around with me, telling him one dubious tale after another. I had to bring him because he insisted. He said he had to see his dentist and he asked Lee Aubrey if I’d give him a lift. Lee made a personal request of it and I couldn’t refuse without sounding suspicious. So there he was.’

  The car had not stopped. As far as Campion could see they were rolling through some sort of park. The girl was still talking. She was nervous and a little breathless.

  ‘He’s a terrifying old boy, isn’t he?’ she demanded. ‘Flat mental deficiency for ninety-nine per cent of the time and single flashes of acuteness. You don’t know whether it’s silver showing through the disguising tarnish or the last few flecks of plate on the old tin spoon. Our only hope is to get down to the meal and behave normally. Have you got anything under that decontamination outfit? Can we leave it in the car?’

  ‘It all depends where we’re going,’ he said. ‘I’m in pyjamas … awful grey flannel things.’

  ‘What?’ She stopped the car in her astonishment and turned to him. ‘What happened? You’re not hurt?’

  ‘Oh lord no,’ he said, warmed by her anxiety. ‘I’m all right really. I only got knocked out.’

  ‘Oh that was it, was it?’ she said, much more relieved than he had expected her to be and far less surprised. ‘The man in the paper shop simply whispered “hospital”. I didn’t get an opportunity to talk to him at all. The place was full of people and there wasn’t time. It was nearly five then and I had the wretched Anscombe inside. That old man knows something, I swear it.’