第 二 章 · Chapter II The Milkman Sets Out on his Travels

. Chapter II The Milkman Sets Out on his Travels

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.