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 confided1 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 desperately2 fishy3. If I made a clean breast of it and told the police everything he had told me, they would simply laugh at me. The odds4 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 pal5 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 passionate6 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 prospect7 comforted me. I had been slack so long that almost any chance of activity was welcome. When I had to sit alone with that corpse8 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 atlas10 and looked at a big map of the British Isles11. 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 Scotch12 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 prospecting13 for copper14 in German Damaraland. But I calculated that it would be less conspicuous15 to be a Scot, and less in a line with what the police might know of my past. I fixed16 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 shutters17. The faint light of a fine summer morning was flooding the skies, and the sparrows had begun to chatter18. I had a great revulsion of feeling, and felt a God-forgotten fool. My inclination19 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 wry20 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 flannel21 shirt with a collar. Into my pockets I stuffed a spare shirt, a cloth cap, some handkerchiefs, and a tooth-brush. I had drawn22 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 drooping23, 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 clatter24 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 pouch25 from the tobacco jar on the table by the fireplace.
As I poked26 into the tobacco my fingers touched something hard, and I drew out Scudder’s little black pocket-book....
That seemed to me a good omen9. 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 rattle27 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 jaw28, 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 shuffling29 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 gaily30 and imitating the jaunty31 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 hoarding32 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 dodged33 them and clambered into the last carriage.
Three minutes later, as we were roaring through the northern tunnels, an irate34 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 compartment35 where I had ensconced myself to a third-class smoker36, occupied by a sailor and a stout37 woman with a child. He went off grumbling38, and as I mopped my brow I observed to my companions in my broadest Scots that it was a sore job catching39 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 morosely40 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.
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1
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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2
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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3
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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4
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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5
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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6
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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7
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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8
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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9
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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10
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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11
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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12
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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13
prospecting
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| n.探矿 | |
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14
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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15
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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16
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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17
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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18
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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19
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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20
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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21
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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22
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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23
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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24
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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25
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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26
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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27
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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28
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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29
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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30
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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31
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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32
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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33
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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34
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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35
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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36
smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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38
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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39
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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40
morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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