When I had done with them I got out Scudder’s little black pocket-book and studied it. It was pretty well filled with jottings, chiefly figures, though now and then a name was printed in. For example, I found the words “Hofgaard”, “Luneville”, and “Avocado” pretty often, and especially the word “Pavia”.
Now I was certain that Scudder never did anything without a reason, and I was pretty sure that there was a cypher in all this. That is a subject which has always interested me, and I did a bit at it myself once as intelligence officer at Delagoa Bay during the Boer War. I have a head for things like chess and puzzles, and I used to reckon myself pretty good at finding out cyphers. This one looked like the numerical kind where sets of figures correspond to the letters of the alphabet, but any fairly shrewd man can find the clue to that sort after an hour or two’s work, and I didn’t think Scudder would have been content with anything so easy. So I fastened on the printed words, for you can make a pretty good numerical cypher if you have a key word which gives you the sequence of the letters.
I tried for hours, but none of the words answered. Then I fell asleep and woke at Dumfries just in time to bundle out and get into the slow Galloway train. There was a man on the platform whose looks I didn’t like, but he never glanced at me, and when I caught sight of myself in the mirror of an automatic machine I didn’t wonder. With my brown face, my old tweeds, and my slouch, I was the very model of one of the hill farmers who were crowding into the third-class carriages.
I travelled with half a dozen in an atmosphere of shag and clay pipes. They had come from the weekly market, and their mouths were full of prices. I heard accounts of how the lambing had gone up the Cairn and the Deuch and a dozen other mysterious waters. Above half the men had lunched heavily and were highly flavoured with whisky, so they took no notice of me. We rumbled2 slowly into a land of little wooded glens and then to a great wide moorland place, gleaming with lochs, with high blue hills showing northwards.
About five o’clock the carriage had emptied, and I was left alone as I had hoped. I got out at the next station, a little place whose name I scarcely noted4, set right in the heart of a bog5. It reminded me of one of those forgotten little stations in the Karroo. An old station-master was digging in his garden, and with his spade over his shoulder sauntered to the train, took charge of a parcel, and went back to his potatoes. A child of ten received my ticket, and I emerged on a white road that straggled over the brown moor3.
It was a gorgeous spring evening, with every hill showing as clear as a cut amethyst6. The air had the queer, rooty smell of bogs7, but it was as fresh as mid-ocean, and it had the strangest effect on my spirits. I actually felt light-hearted. I might have been a boy out for a spring holiday tramp, instead of a man of thirty-seven very much wanted by the police. I felt just as I used to feel when I was starting for a big trek8 on a frosty morning on the high veld. If you believe me, I swung along that road whistling. There was no plan of campaign in my head, only just to go on and on in this blessed, honest-smelling hill country, for every mile put me in better humour with myself.
In a roadside planting I cut a walking-stick of hazel, and presently struck off the highway up a by-path which followed the glen of a brawling9 stream. I reckoned that I was still far ahead of any pursuit, and for that night might please myself. It was some hours since I had tasted food, and I was getting very hungry when I came to a herd10’s cottage set in a nook beside a waterfall. A brown-faced woman was standing11 by the door, and greeted me with the kindly12 shyness of moorland places. When I asked for a night’s lodging13 she said I was welcome to the “bed in the loft”, and very soon she set before me a hearty14 meal of ham and eggs, scones15, and thick sweet milk.
At the darkening her man came in from the hills, a lean giant, who in one step covered as much ground as three paces of ordinary mortals. They asked me no questions, for they had the perfect breeding of all dwellers16 in the wilds, but I could see they set me down as a kind of dealer17, and I took some trouble to confirm their view. I spoke18 a lot about cattle, of which my host knew little, and I picked up from him a good deal about the local Galloway markets, which I tucked away in my memory for future use. At ten I was nodding in my chair, and the “bed in the loft” received a weary man who never opened his eyes till five o’clock set the little homestead a-going once more.
They refused any payment, and by six I had breakfasted and was striding southwards again. My notion was to return to the railway line a station or two farther on than the place where I had alighted yesterday and to double back. I reckoned that that was the safest way, for the police would naturally assume that I was always making farther from London in the direction of some western port. I thought I had still a good bit of a start, for, as I reasoned, it would take some hours to fix the blame on me, and several more to identify the fellow who got on board the train at St Pancras.
It was the same jolly, clear spring weather, and I simply could not contrive19 to feel careworn20. Indeed I was in better spirits than I had been for months. Over a long ridge21 of moorland I took my road, skirting the side of a high hill which the herd had called Cairnsmore of Fleet. Nesting curlews and plovers22 were crying everywhere, and the links of green pasture by the streams were dotted with young lambs. All the slackness of the past months was slipping from my bones, and I stepped out like a four-year-old. By-and-by I came to a swell23 of moorland which dipped to the vale of a little river, and a mile away in the heather I saw the smoke of a train.
The station, when I reached it, proved to be ideal for my purpose. The moor surged up around it and left room only for the single line, the slender siding, a waiting-room, an office, the station-master’s cottage, and a tiny yard of gooseberries and sweet-william. There seemed no road to it from anywhere, and to increase the desolation the waves of a tarn24 lapped on their grey granite25 beach half a mile away. I waited in the deep heather till I saw the smoke of an east-going train on the horizon. Then I approached the tiny booking-office and took a ticket for Dumfries.
The only occupants of the carriage were an old shepherd and his dog—a wall-eyed brute26 that I mistrusted. The man was asleep, and on the cushions beside him was that morning’s Scotsman. Eagerly I seized on it, for I fancied it would tell me something.
There were two columns about the Portland Place Murder, as it was called. My man Paddock had given the alarm and had the milkman arrested. Poor devil, it looked as if the latter had earned his sovereign hardly; but for me he had been cheap at the price, for he seemed to have occupied the police for the better part of the day. In the latest news I found a further instalment of the story. The milkman had been released, I read, and the true criminal, about whose identity the police were reticent28, was believed to have got away from London by one of the northern lines. There was a short note about me as the owner of the flat. I guessed the police had stuck that in, as a clumsy contrivance to persuade me that I was unsuspected.
There was nothing else in the paper, nothing about foreign politics or Karolides, or the things that had interested Scudder. I laid it down, and found that we were approaching the station at which I had got out yesterday. The potato-digging station-master had been gingered up into some activity, for the west-going train was waiting to let us pass, and from it had descended29 three men who were asking him questions. I supposed that they were the local police, who had been stirred up by Scotland Yard, and had traced me as far as this one-horse siding. Sitting well back in the shadow I watched them carefully. One of them had a book, and took down notes. The old potato-digger seemed to have turned peevish30, but the child who had collected my ticket was talking volubly. All the party looked out across the moor where the white road departed. I hoped they were going to take up my tracks there.
As we moved away from that station my companion woke up. He fixed31 me with a wandering glance, kicked his dog viciously, and inquired where he was. Clearly he was very drunk.
“That’s what comes o’ bein’ a teetotaller,” he observed in bitter regret.
I expressed my surprise that in him I should have met a blue-ribbon stalwart.
“Ay, but I’m a strong teetotaller,” he said pugnaciously32. “I took the pledge last Martinmas, and I havena touched a drop o’ whisky sinsyne. Not even at Hogmanay, though I was sair temptit.”
“And that’s a’ I get,” he moaned. “A heid better than hell fire, and twae een lookin’ different ways for the Sabbath.”
“What did it?” I asked.
“A drink they ca’ brandy. Bein’ a teetotaller I keepit off the whisky, but I was nip-nippin’ a’ day at this brandy, and I doubt I’ll no be weel for a fortnicht.” His voice died away into a splutter, and sleep once more laid its heavy hand on him.
My plan had been to get out at some station down the line, but the train suddenly gave me a better chance, for it came to a standstill at the end of a culvert which spanned a brawling porter-coloured river. I looked out and saw that every carriage window was closed and no human figure appeared in the landscape. So I opened the door, and dropped quickly into the tangle34 of hazels which edged the line.
It would have been all right but for that infernal dog. Under the impression that I was decamping with its master’s belongings35, it started to bark, and all but got me by the trousers. This woke up the herd, who stood bawling36 at the carriage door in the belief that I had committed suicide. I crawled through the thicket37, reached the edge of the stream, and in cover of the bushes put a hundred yards or so behind me. Then from my shelter I peered back, and saw the guard and several passengers gathered round the open carriage door and staring in my direction. I could not have made a more public departure if I had left with a bugler38 and a brass39 band.
Happily the drunken herd provided a diversion. He and his dog, which was attached by a rope to his waist, suddenly cascaded40 out of the carriage, landed on their heads on the track, and rolled some way down the bank towards the water. In the rescue which followed the dog bit somebody, for I could hear the sound of hard swearing. Presently they had forgotten me, and when after a quarter of a mile’s crawl I ventured to look back, the train had started again and was vanishing in the cutting.
I was in a wide semicircle of moorland, with the brown river as radius41, and the high hills forming the northern circumference42. There was not a sign or sound of a human being, only the plashing water and the interminable crying of curlews. Yet, oddly enough, for the first time I felt the terror of the hunted on me. It was not the police that I thought of, but the other folk, who knew that I knew Scudder’s secret and dared not let me live. I was certain that they would pursue me with a keenness and vigilance unknown to the British law, and that once their grip closed on me I should find no mercy.
I looked back, but there was nothing in the landscape. The sun glinted on the metals of the line and the wet stones in the stream, and you could not have found a more peaceful sight in the world. Nevertheless I started to run. Crouching43 low in the runnels of the bog, I ran till the sweat blinded my eyes. The mood did not leave me till I had reached the rim27 of mountain and flung myself panting on a ridge high above the young waters of the brown river.
From my vantage-ground I could scan the whole moor right away to the railway line and to the south of it where green fields took the place of heather. I have eyes like a hawk44, but I could see nothing moving in the whole countryside. Then I looked east beyond the ridge and saw a new kind of landscape—shallow green valleys with plentiful45 fir plantations46 and the faint lines of dust which spoke of highroads. Last of all I looked into the blue May sky, and there I saw that which set my pulses racing47....
Low down in the south a monoplane was climbing into the heavens. I was as certain as if I had been told that that aeroplane was looking for me, and that it did not belong to the police. For an hour or two I watched it from a pit of heather. It flew low along the hill-tops, and then in narrow circles over the valley up which I had come. Then it seemed to change its mind, rose to a great height, and flew away back to the south.
I did not like this espionage48 from the air, and I began to think less well of the countryside I had chosen for a refuge. These heather hills were no sort of cover if my enemies were in the sky, and I must find a different kind of sanctuary49. I looked with more satisfaction to the green country beyond the ridge, for there I should find woods and stone houses.
About six in the evening I came out of the moorland to a white ribbon of road which wound up the narrow vale of a lowland stream. As I followed it, fields gave place to bent50, the glen became a plateau, and presently I had reached a kind of pass where a solitary51 house smoked in the twilight52. The road swung over a bridge, and leaning on the parapet was a young man.
He was smoking a long clay pipe and studying the water with spectacled eyes. In his left hand was a small book with a finger marking the place. Slowly he repeated—
As when a Gryphon through the wilderness53
Pursues the Arimaspian.
He jumped round as my step rung on the keystone, and I saw a pleasant sunburnt boyish face.
“Good evening to you,” he said gravely. “It’s a fine night for the road.”
The smell of peat smoke and of some savoury roast floated to me from the house.
“Is that place an inn?” I asked.
“At your service,” he said politely. “I am the landlord, sir, and I hope you will stay the night, for to tell you the truth I have had no company for a week.”
I pulled myself up on the parapet of the bridge and filled my pipe. I began to detect an ally.
“You’re young to be an innkeeper,” I said.
“My father died a year ago and left me the business. I live there with my grandmother. It’s a slow job for a young man, and it wasn’t my choice of profession.”
“Which was?”
He actually blushed. “I want to write books,” he said.
“And what better chance could you ask?” I cried. “Man, I’ve often thought that an innkeeper would make the best story-teller in the world.”
“Not now,” he said eagerly. “Maybe in the old days when you had pilgrims and ballad-makers and highwaymen and mail-coaches on the road. But not now. Nothing comes here but motor-cars full of fat women, who stop for lunch, and a fisherman or two in the spring, and the shooting tenants56 in August. There is not much material to be got out of that. I want to see life, to travel the world, and write things like Kipling and Conrad. But the most I’ve done yet is to get some verses printed in Chambers’s Journal.”
I looked at the inn standing golden in the sunset against the brown hills.
“I’ve knocked a bit about the world, and I wouldn’t despise such a hermitage. D’you think that adventure is found only in the tropics or among gentry57 in red shirts? Maybe you’re rubbing shoulders with it at this moment.”
“That’s what Kipling says,” he said, his eyes brightening, and he quoted some verse about “Romance brings up the 9.15.”
“Here’s a true tale for you then,” I cried, “and a month from now you can make a novel out of it.”
Sitting on the bridge in the soft May gloaming I pitched him a lovely yarn58. It was true in essentials, too, though I altered the minor59 details. I made out that I was a mining magnate from Kimberley, who had had a lot of trouble with I.D.B. and had shown up a gang. They had pursued me across the ocean, and had killed my best friend, and were now on my tracks.
I told the story well, though I say it who shouldn’t. I pictured a flight across the Kalahari to German Africa, the crackling, parching60 days, the wonderful blue-velvet nights. I described an attack on my life on the voyage home, and I made a really horrid61 affair of the Portland Place murder. “You’re looking for adventure,” I cried; “well, you’ve found it here. The devils are after me, and the police are after them. It’s a race that I mean to win.”
“By God!” he whispered, drawing his breath in sharply, “it is all pure Rider Haggard and Conan Doyle.”
“You believe me,” I said gratefully.
“Of course I do,” and he held out his hand. “I believe everything out of the common. The only thing to distrust is the normal.”
He was very young, but he was the man for my money.
“I think they’re off my track for the moment, but I must lie close for a couple of days. Can you take me in?”
He caught my elbow in his eagerness and drew me towards the house. “You can lie as snug62 here as if you were in a moss-hole. I’ll see that nobody blabs, either. And you’ll give me some more material about your adventures?”
As I entered the inn porch I heard from far off the beat of an engine. There silhouetted63 against the dusky West was my friend, the monoplane.
He gave me a room at the back of the house, with a fine outlook over the plateau, and he made me free of his own study, which was stacked with cheap editions of his favourite authors. I never saw the grandmother, so I guessed she was bedridden. An old woman called Margit brought me my meals, and the innkeeper was around me at all hours. I wanted some time to myself, so I invented a job for him. He had a motor bicycle, and I sent him off next morning for the daily paper, which usually arrived with the post in the late afternoon. I told him to keep his eyes skinned, and make note of any strange figures he saw, keeping a special sharp look-out for motors and aeroplanes. Then I sat down in real earnest to Scudder’s note-book.
He came back at midday with the Scotsman. There was nothing in it, except some further evidence of Paddock and the milkman, and a repetition of yesterday’s statement that the murderer had gone North. But there was a long article, reprinted from the Times, about Karolides and the state of affairs in the Balkans, though there was no mention of any visit to England. I got rid of the innkeeper for the afternoon, for I was getting very warm in my search for the cypher.
As I told you, it was a numerical cypher, and by an elaborate system of experiments I had pretty well discovered what were the nulls and stops. The trouble was the key word, and when I thought of the odd million words he might have used I felt pretty hopeless. But about three o’clock I had a sudden inspiration.
The name Julia Czechenyi flashed across my memory. Scudder had said it was the key to the Karolides business, and it occurred to me to try it on his cypher.
It worked. The five letters of “Julia” gave me the position of the vowels64. A was J, the tenth letter of the alphabet, and so represented by X in the cypher. E was U=XXI, and so on. “Czechenyi’ gave me the numerals for the principal consonants65. I scribbled66 that scheme on a bit of paper and sat down to read Scudder’s pages.
In half an hour I was reading with a whitish face and fingers that drummed on the table.
I glanced out of the window and saw a big touring-car coming up the glen towards the inn. It drew up at the door, and there was the sound of people alighting. There seemed to be two of them, men in aquascutums and tweed caps.
Ten minutes later the innkeeper slipped into the room, his eyes bright with excitement.
“There’s two chaps below looking for you,” he whispered. “They’re in the dining-room having whiskies-and-sodas. They asked about you and said they had hoped to meet you here. Oh! and they described you jolly well, down to your boots and shirt. I told them you had been here last night and had gone off on a motor bicycle this morning, and one of the chaps swore like a navvy.”
I made him tell me what they looked like. One was a dark-eyed thin fellow with bushy eyebrows67, the other was always smiling and lisped in his talk. Neither was any kind of foreigner; on this my young friend was positive.
I took a bit of paper and wrote these words in German as if they were part of a letter—
... “Black Stone. Scudder had got on to this, but he could not act for a fortnight. I doubt if I can do any good now, especially as Karolides is uncertain about his plans. But if Mr T. advises I will do the best I....”
“Take this down and say it was found in my bedroom, and ask them to return it to me if they overtake me.”
Three minutes later I heard the car begin to move, and peeping from behind the curtain caught sight of the two figures. One was slim, the other was sleek69; that was the most I could make of my reconnaissance.
The innkeeper appeared in great excitement. “Your paper woke them up,” he said gleefully. “The dark fellow went as white as death and cursed like blazes, and the fat one whistled and looked ugly. They paid for their drinks with half-a-sovereign and wouldn’t wait for change.”
“Now I’ll tell you what I want you to do,” I said. “Get on your bicycle and go off to Newton-Stewart to the Chief Constable70. Describe the two men, and say you suspect them of having had something to do with the London murder. You can invent reasons. The two will come back, never fear. Not tonight, for they’ll follow me forty miles along the road, but first thing tomorrow morning. Tell the police to be here bright and early.”
He set off like a docile71 child, while I worked at Scudder’s notes. When he came back we dined together, and in common decency72 I had to let him pump me. I gave him a lot of stuff about lion hunts and the Matabele War, thinking all the while what tame businesses these were compared to this I was now engaged in! When he went to bed I sat up and finished Scudder. I smoked in a chair till daylight, for I could not sleep.
About eight next morning I witnessed the arrival of two constables73 and a sergeant74. They put their car in a coach-house under the innkeeper’s instructions, and entered the house. Twenty minutes later I saw from my window a second car come across the plateau from the opposite direction. It did not come up to the inn, but stopped two hundred yards off in the shelter of a patch of wood. I noticed that its occupants carefully reversed it before leaving it. A minute or two later I heard their steps on the gravel55 outside the window.
My plan had been to lie hid in my bedroom, and see what happened. I had a notion that, if I could bring the police and my other more dangerous pursuers together, something might work out of it to my advantage. But now I had a better idea. I scribbled a line of thanks to my host, opened the window, and dropped quietly into a gooseberry bush. Unobserved I crossed the dyke75, crawled down the side of a tributary76 burn, and won the highroad on the far side of the patch of trees. There stood the car, very spick and span in the morning sunlight, but with the dust on her which told of a long journey. I started her, jumped into the chauffeur’s seat, and stole gently out on to the plateau.
Almost at once the road dipped so that I lost sight of the inn, but the wind seemed to bring me the sound of angry voices.
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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trek
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| vi.作长途艰辛的旅行；n.长途艰苦的旅行 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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plovers
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| n.珩，珩科鸟（如凤头麦鸡）( plover的名词复数 ) | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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descended
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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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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pugnaciously
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burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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bugler
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| 喇叭手； 号兵； 吹鼓手； 司号员 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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cascaded
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| 级联的 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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moory
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| adj.摩尔人的，（建筑、家具等）摩尔人式的，摩尔人风格的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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parching
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| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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