Читать книгу Among Those Absent - Cyril Henry Coles - Страница 7

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The Vavasour Cinema had a modest lobby adorned with a magnificent commissionaire; Tommy Hambledon strolled casually in and showed his presentation tickets. The General-Admiral inspected them, bowed with, as it were, a trace of foreign accent, and led the way down a long passage. Evidently the Vavasour was not, in any real sense, in Marjorie Street at all but behind it; Hambledon considered uneasily that there was not likely to be any other exit. No, there must be others or the place would never have been licensed; he stepped out more confidently. At the end of the passage were swing doors and a staircase going up; the commissionaire led him up them, past more swing doors from which cheerful music oozed, and down another passage to a small door labelled “Private.” He knocked, opened the door and said, “The gentleman, sir.”

Tommy walked in and the commissionaire shut the door behind him. There was a large roll-top desk in the middle of the room, and behind it a neat man in a grey-striped suit and gold-rimmed spectacles. He rose as Tommy entered, bowed and asked him to sit down. “Mr.—er—Hawkley, is it? My name is Robinson.”

“How d’you do?” said Hambledon, and sat down.

“I am well, I thank you, and I hope you are.”

“I have to thank someone,” said Tommy, “is it you? For the gift of two presentation tickets for your show this afternoon. I am sorry I can only make use of one of them, I could not find a friend to come with me at such short notice.”

The neat man fiddled with his glasses. “We were hoping you would have brought your friend Mr. Cobden with you.”

“Cobden, yes. Unfortunately I have lost touch with Cobden. We were travelling together, but he left me somewhat abruptly and I have not seen him since.”

“Left you? Where?”

“I really couldn’t say,” said Tommy blandly. “It was dark.”

“I think we are wasting time,” said Robinson precisely. “Under what circumstances did you part from Mr. Cobden?”

“We were travelling by air and he became apprehensive lest we might be heading out over the North Sea. He accordingly adjusted his parachute harness, wished me luck and—er—abandoned the ship.”

“I see. You, however, carried on as arranged?”

Tommy nodded. “I was advised to go to a certain address and I did so. That’s where I got these tickets I’m still trying to thank you for, but I expect you know all about that.”

“It must have dawned upon a man of your intelligence,” said Robinson, “that considerable trouble and expense must have been incurred in arranging your escape.”

“My escape?”

“You have put your finger upon the spot, the arrangements were not intended for you. May I ask how you found the lorry?”

“Purely by accident,” said Hambledon. “The fog came down when we were in the fields, Cobden and I were a little apart from our friends. Our guardians had just summoned us to return to our dwellings when there was some sort of disturbance among the company. Cobden and I decided to make a change, so we left. Perhaps it was unwise, the fog was so thick that in five minutes we were completely lost. However, we kept on walking and presently we bumped our noses against a grey lorry. Do I bore you with all this?”

“Not at all. Please go on.”

“Two men appeared from the lorry; we were about to turn and flee when they uttered words of welcome and we gathered they were willing to help us. I will be frank with you, Mr. Robinson,” said Tommy earnestly, “and admit that I’ve never been so surprised in all my life. Words failed me. They urged us into the lorry and pressed a change of clothing upon us. Not to embarrass you with sordid details, we needed a change of clothing and we accepted. It was as men in a dream that we dressed ourselves in the garments provided, and when we were invited to ascend a rope ladder into the ambient fog it only seemed to make the dream more real, if you understand me. A few last hurried words and we were off before any suitable expression of our sentiments had occurred to us. I am happy, therefore, to have this opportunity of expressing, to one who is doubtless in touch with our benefactors, my deep sense of gratitude for the helping hand so timely and ingeniously extended. I beg you will do me the favour of conveying the sense of these few inadequate words to those whose kindness I can never repay.”

Tommy sat back in his chair and beamed upon Mr. Robinson.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Robinson. “I mean, that you can never repay. I have been instructed to suggest that you could.”

“In what way?”

“Rumour said that when you ceased your financial operations you had a certain sum put by. Some fifteen thousand pounds was, if I remember correctly, the amount mentioned. The police are said to have entirely failed to locate it.”

“How people do exaggerate,” said Hambledon sadly. “Fifteen thousand—you did say fifteen thousand, did you not? I only wish I had one-tenth of that sum.”

Mr. Robinson smiled. “There is a pleasant story,” he said, “of a Quaker of old time who witnessed a street accident. A crowd gathered, commiserating loudly. The Quaker took off his broad-brimmed hat and went round the crowd with it saying, ‘I am sorry half a crown, how much is thee sorry?’ You said just now that you were grateful and I am sure it is true. Shall we say, then, that you are grateful five thousand pounds?”

“Oh dear, no,” said Tommy.

“No?”

“Definitely, no. Listen. You did not make these expensive and ingenious arrangements for my benefit, you admitted as much yourself.” Mr. Robinson nodded. “Neither I nor Cobden ever approached you or suggested that you should help us. Capricious Fortune alone sent your plans agley, if I may quote the poets. Whoever your friend was he did not arrive, and I would point out that your work had already been done even to filling the balloon. I should suppose that putting the hydrogen from the balloon back into its native cylinders was even more impossible than the classic replacement of the toothpaste in the tube. No, Mr. Robinson, no. We did not urge you to risk your money, and I am sure Cobden, if he were here, would agree with me in saying that I must regretfully but firmly decline to indemnify you. A small sum to some worthy charity to be selected by your good selves, certainly, but five thousand pounds! Really, Mr. Robinson!”

Robinson raised his eyebrows and sighed. “I am sorry you should have taken the suggestion like that. If, however, your mind is made up there is no more to be said.” He pressed a bell-push on his desk and added: “I must apologise for keeping you talking so long that you have even missed the picture, it is now only twenty minutes from its close and will not be repeated until seven-fifteen to-night.” The door opened and the commissionaire stood waiting for orders. “Show this gentleman out, Morgan, will you, please? Good afternoon, Mr. Hawkley.”

The moment Tommy was out of the room Robinson snatched up the telephone, dialled a number and spoke almost at once. “That you, Parker? He won’t play. Go to it.” He replaced the receiver.

Hambledon followed the magnificent Morgan down the corridor, expecting some concealed door to open and a strong hand to pluck him inside, but nothing happened. No one tripped him on the stairs or molested him in the long passage to the entrance door. He gave Morgan half a crown, remembering the Quaker, and was graciously thanked; he lit a cigarette, settled his hat firmly on his head and walked out into the street.

“If that’s really all,” he said to himself, “it’s a very odd affair. Very queer. I shouldn’t think it is all, for a moment, but here I am, aren’t I? And quite a lot of useful dope for the Home Secretary.” He walked on along the street; twenty yards ahead of him was a telephone call-box with the dimly-seen figure of a man inside it and another man outside, waiting for him with his back towards Hambledon. As Tommy came level with the call-box the man outside crossed the pavement, the man inside came out and they fell in on either side of him.

“Keep walking, brother,” said Parker, who had been telephoning. “Keep walking, and if you make the slightest fuss I’ll blow a hole in you.” Something hard prodded Hambledon in the waist. “And look pleasant about it, too. See?”

Hambledon looked from one to the other and recognised them at once—they were the two men from the alleged Industrial Gas Association’s lorry from which the balloon had ascended on the hills above Northern Moor Prison.

“Oh, good afternoon,” said Hambledon. “What a pleasure. Can I keep my boots on this time? Except that they’re not boots, they’re shoes; the same, in fact, with which you kindly provided me the other night. I say, your Mr. Robinson must have some sort of pull with the telephone company, he got that call through much more quickly than I ever manage to do. I take it he rang you at that call-box and told you I was feeling lonely and needed cheerful company. What do we do this time, go down in a submarine or merely travel by Underground, it’s quicker?”

“Be quiet,” said Parker.

“Why! You told me to look pleasant, didn’t you, and they tell me my face is much more attractive when animated than when in repose. Besides, I like talking, it helps to pass the time.”

“You can talk later,” said Parker.

Hambledon was anxious lest Cobden should make an incautious appearance, since the escort would naturally recognise him also. He need not have worried, Cobden was never incautious and in any case had recognised the two men by the call-box ten minutes earlier. He went to ground in a second-hand book shop and waited upon the outcome.

“Later,” said Hambledon, continuing the conversation, “the mood may have passed.”

Parker did not answer, but the other man who had not yet spoken laughed shortly and Hambledon thought it a most unpleasant sound.

“Left, here,” said Parker.

They turned into a narrow street between warehouses; fifty yards ahead of them there was a space which had been cleared up after the Luftwaffe and levelled for a car park. At the corner stood a policeman. Hambledon hesitated; he had no wish to return to Northern Moor, but it might be a good deal more agreeable than being encouraged by these horribly capable men to talk about money he did not possess. However, Parker helped him to make up his mind.

“See that cop?” he said. “Well, if you make one sound or sign, or so much as look at him in passing, I’ll blow your insides out.”

“Then you’ll hang,” said Hambledon.

“That won’t help you.”

Hambledon gave up that idea for the present. Some other scheme would probably present itself in due course. They passed the policeman and turned into the car park: there were a good many cars there and the attendant came ambling from among them to show them theirs and receive his tip. The next moment Cobden, with his collar turned up and his hat over his eyes, slipped round the corner and took the policeman eagerly by the arm.

“See that man! The middle one of those three? That’s Hawkley, the escaped convict from Northern Moor.”

“What?”

“You look at him and see. I know it’s him, I was at his trial. I like trials,” added Cobden untruthfully.

“I thought when I saw him there was something,” said the constable, and pursued the party with long strides. Cobden followed behind.

The car park attendant led the way towards an unusually well-preserved Ford V8, and held the door open; Parker continued to control Hambledon while the silent half of the escort produced a tip. At this moment the police constable rounded the stern of a Daimler saloon, placed his hand upon Tommy’s shoulder and said: “Here. I want you.”

The result of this simple and even habitual action surprised him considerably. The ex-convict practically fell into his arms while the other two, against whom he had no unfriendly intentions, leapt into the car, pressed a responsive starter, backed out and were away before P.C. Grierson had time to do more than say “Hi!” and observe their number. He turned to Tommy.

“You are Edwin Vincent Hawkley,” he said.

“Officer,” said Hambledon with emotion, “you are a credit and an ornament to the Force which is ennobled by your allegiance.”

“That’ll do,” said Grierson.

“But I mean it,” protested Hambledon.

The car park attendant appealed to Cobden. “What is all this ’ere?”

“Only done a bunk from his wife and she’s after him,” said Cobden. “Look, there’s another car going off without you.”

“Pore beggar,” said the attendant, referring to Hambledon, and went away to attend to a Hillman Minx.

“Will you come along quiet?” asked Grierson. “Only make more trouble if you don’t, you know.”

“Nothing so lamb-like as me,” began Tommy, “has been seen in the streets of London since——”

Cobden, who had watched the attendant out of sight, turned in a flash and hit the unsuspecting Grierson hard under the jaw. His eyes closed, his knees gave way and Cobden lowered him gently to the ground.

“Run!” said Cobden to Hambledon. “See you later—run!”

“You are terribly sudden,” said Hambledon, and ran one way while Cobden disappeared in another.

*****

When it was discovered that two convicts had escaped from Northern Moor, the great bell on the roof of the main block was tolled to warn the countryside. In every house within earshot doors were locked and barred, windows shuttered and bolted, outhouses padlocked, washing snatched from lines and indignant children shepherded within doors. In the jail itself excitement mounted, since hysteria is never far from men unnaturally confined. The normally quiet corridors rang with shouting, jeers and song while the harassed warders banged on the iron doors with threats of “no supper” unless the uproar ceased. In the Prison Governor’s office a clerk at a telephone rang up the County Police, Police Headquarters rang up the Divisions and Divisions notified the rural Constabulary; within a ten-mile radius round the prison men buttoned up uniform jackets, threw on oilskin capes, snatched up helmets, lamps and truncheons, and left their well-earned tea to patrol in the fog and the gathering darkness. There was an Escape Plan laid down ready for such emergencies; the district was cordoned off, all roads blocked and all traffic stopped for investigation. The Plan was put into immediate operation.

One such road-block was on a bridge which carries a lane from the moors over the river Faraday which here runs deep and swift among boulders, a barrier to discourage the most daring. This was a likely spot; a sergeant and two constables waited beside a pole crossing the road with a red lamp hung in the middle of it. As soon as the arrangements had been completed the sergeant sent one of his constables forward each way to slow down any vehicle which came along.

“If they’re driving,” said the sergeant, “they may be here any minute, if they’re walking they may not be here for hours.”

“If they come this way at all,” said one of his constables, preparing to take up his post.

“Tell yourself he certainly will,” said the sergeant sternly, “then perhaps he won’t,” he added, as soon as the constable was out of earshot. A pole on trestles wouldn’t stop determined men in a car unless they were very unlucky.

The lane from the moor came down a steep hill to the bridge, a narrow lane with high banks and several sharp bends. The fog here was not so dense, it followed the river down, running like blown smoke through the light from the red lantern. Before five minutes had passed the sergeant cocked his head to listen, there was another sound besides the steady rush of the river. Lights appeared on the hill, something big coming, a lorry of some sort. The sergeant heard his constable shout but the lorry came on, accelerating in the clearer air. The sergeant also shouted and waved his torch, but he had to jump for the bank as the lorry thundered past—it swept the pole away like a twig and the red lantern sailed through the air like a discarded cigar-butt.

The third policeman, thirty yards further on, was a man of initiative and a cricketer. He also shouted, but at the moment when it became plain that the lorry would not stop he hurled a lump of rock straight at the windscreen. There was a resounding crash. In the light of his torch he saw the glass star and splinter right in front of the driver’s face, but still the lorry went on. Not so fast now, and with the driver’s head craning out of the side window, but without hesitation. They heard him change gear for the next hill, then he disappeared in the fog. The sergeant ran to his motor-cycle parked at the side of the road, dragged it off its stand, kicked the starter and was off in pursuit.

At the top of the hill the road forked and the sergeant had to slow down and look for wheel-tracks. He saw them and started again, two miles further on he found the lorry canted over on its side in the ditch. It had not been a serious crash and there was no sign that anyone had been hurt. In fact, there was no sign of anyone at all; the driver and passenger or passengers had gone.

The County Police rang up the Industrial Gas Association as early next morning as they could reasonably expect a reply, and reported that one of their lorries, registration number so-and-so, had been found at a certain spot ditched and deserted. It contained a number of empty hydrogen cylinders. The Company replied, after looking into the matter, that they had no lorry bearing that number and furthermore that none of their lorries was, so far as they knew, in that district the night before. Details of the markings on the hydrogen cylinders would be informative, also the engine number of the lorry, and confirmation that the registration number, as quoted, was correct. The police supplied these details and the Company replied that, unless the markings had been tampered with, the cylinders would appear to be theirs, but not the lorry. Definitely not, and they hereby disclaimed responsibility for any acts or the consequences of any acts which had etc., etc.

Since Chief-Inspector Bagshott of Scotland Yard had been put in charge of the inquiry into the series of prison-breaks, the evidence at this point was laid before him. He sent for Detective-Inspector Ennis.

“If the Company are telling the truth,” said Bagshott, “the lorry was faked to look like one of theirs, but they ought to be able to tell us who had the cylinders.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ennis. “Hydrogen cylinders,” he added thoughtfully.

“If you were going to ask me what hydrogen is used for in industry, I believe the answer is in some types of welding, but you can find out. Of course, there’s a much more familiar use for hydrogen.”

“They used it to fill barrage balloons, didn’t they?”

“Yes. It would fill any balloon, Ennis. If you had a balloon you didn’t want, Ennis, what would you do with it?”

“If the wind was right, sir, you could bail out, let it go and hope it would drift out to sea.”

“Somebody might spot it,” said Bagshott.

“If you could deflate it——”

“There’s still the basket.”

“Yes,” said Ennis. “I suppose the basket could be chopped up and burnt? And the envelope would burn, or——”

“If you’re an escaping convict you don’t light bonfires. And you can’t direct a balloon to land in a friend’s garden. You come down where the wind takes you—I think this discussion is unprofitable, we don’t even know there was a balloon. We are not even sure that that lorry was concerned with the escapes, but the driver had something on his conscience. Find out what it was.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Helpful things, consciences,” said Bagshott. “What would the police do without them?”

“A good bit better, sir, if you ask me,” said Ennis.