Читать книгу Men of Affairs - Roland Pertwee - Страница 7

As the taxi turned into the station yard from the Euston Road, Anthony Barraclough unobtrusively opened the offside door and dropped into the street. A pantechnicon concealed the manoeuvre from the traffic that followed. His taxi driver was blissfully unaware of his departure. It would seem a mean thing to have done but Barraclough had pinned a Bradbury to the vacated seat as a tacit apology.

On landing in the street he wasted no time and nipped very neatly into the open back of the pantechnicon. Here he concealed himself until a stream of a dozen taxis had passed by, and in the pleasant straw smelling shadows Anthony Barraclough grew a beard in precisely half a minute by the clock, and a moustache in even less time. It was a nice beard and a nice moustache, but even so it did not improve his appearance. He was much better looking without. If you doubt the statement here is an official report of his looks and bearing, by means of which you may judge for yourself.

Height, about five feet nine. Age, thirty-four. Hair, dark with a disposition to wave. Eyes, brown and set wide apart. Well marked brows. Nose of medium length and slightly crooked to the left Short upper lip. Firm mouth with an upward twist at the corners. A strong square chin. A habit of holding the head slightly at an angle. Quick way of speaking. Walks with a springy step. Stands with one hand on his left hip.

Compare this description with one printed in the foregoing chapter and a certain peculiar resemblance may suggest itself. The absence of the word 'merry' in the latter as applied to the eyes must not be mistaken for a careless omission, but rather as a piece of keen observation in physiognomy. These things are very important.

Having pressed his cheeks until the wax warmed and adhered, Anthony Barraclough threw a leg over the tailboard and alighted on the pavement. Scarcely a soul bothered to glance his way. At a smart walk he made for the tube station, bought a ticket at the twopenny machine and entered the lift. In the passages below he made a circular tour, entered an ascending lift and reappeared in the street. A 'bus was passing which he entered and travelled in for a few hundred yards. Then he got out and hailed a taxi and two minutes later was at the booking office of St. Pancras Station. As he was reaching for his note case a man in the queue behind him observed, vaguely, as though addressing the air:

"Pity to waste the money, Mr. Barraclough. Much better go home and be reasonable."

He returned the note case to his pocket and stepped out of the queue. A sudden inflammation of anger surged to his cheeks and his brows came down hard and straight.

The individual who had spoken was apparently absorbed in a copy of Answers.

"It is annoying, isn't it?" he remarked sweetly.

And then it was that Barraclough did a very stupid thing. He measured the distance speculatively between his own fist and the man's jaw and upper cut to the point as neatly as you could please. It happened so quickly that the onlookers thought the man had fallen from sickness. Barraclough was gone when they helped him to his feet. He was in a taxi speeding out of the yard.

"Drive north as fast you can go," he had shouted.

A loafer, standing by the station gates, who had witnessed his hurried entry into the cab, lounged in front as it was passing out. The driver swore and slammed on his brakes but the loafer took his own time and chances. The speed of the taxi fell almost to a walking pace. The loafer caught the nearside canopy stay with his right hand and slung his knee on to the projecting end of the rear wing. From there he mounted to the roof of the cab, keeping his legs clear of the side windows. It was quite a dexterous performance, and after all, what was against it? The fare for two is the same as for one and the poor must travel. So hugging his knees and smiling he sat on the battens of the luggage rack and congratulated himself, while within Anthony Barraclough was tapping with his foot and feeling very angry indeed.

And if you are interested to know why, here is the reason. The little affair that occurred at St. Pancras booking office was a repetition of seven similar incidents within the last twelve hours. By seven different routes he had endeavoured to get out of London and in every instance had been headed back. It had started with the affair on the Croydon train and the woman who fainted in his arms. Then there was the car on the Portsmouth road that had been crashed into by another at the top of Kingston Hill. Victoria, Charing Cross, Waterloo and Liverpool Street. It seemed to make no difference at all where he tried, the result was always the same. The little contretemps at Rotherhithe when he tried to board a tug was a sufficiently unpleasant experience for one day. A man gets out of the habit of being shot over after two years of peace and the memory of the little chips of flying woodwork flicked from the bows of the dingy as he had pulled out into the river was distinctly discouraging. Whoever fired the shots had a pretty knack with a rifle. It was the whirr of a bullet just over his head persuaded him to put back to port. After that the firing ceased. As he dragged the almost foundering dingy on to the mud a fast motor launch went scurrying down stream with a man on deck who shouted, "Go home."

But Anthony was not the type of man to turn back. Opposition sterned his resolve. Besides he had a pretty sure conviction that they did not mean to kill him. Very much the reverse. Were he to be dying of a sickness he felt certain they would dispatch to his bedside the finest physicians of the land. The problem was how to escape their unwelcome attentions and so far it had proved a problem without solution.

They were speeding along the Caledonian Road when the driver leaned out to ask where he should drive. The man on the top of the cab caught the answer "Hendon Aerodrome" and smiled because he admired a tryer.

"Better wait till we get to a quieter part," he reflected.

The taxi proceeded until at last the houses of Golders Green ran out into the fields near The Welsh Harp. Then very cautiously he spread out at full length and reached out his hand for the knee joint of the hood stay. The one on the right broke easily but the left was stiffer and bit his finger as the joint gave. He had already loosened the little clip hooks that secured the hood frame to the permanent structure. There was room for a knife blade where the frames united and they had slipped back easily. Holding the hood in position with his left hand the adventurous passenger produced a neat automatic with his right. Then he gave the hood a shove and presented the pistol at Barraclough's head. And since it is not in the realms of common occurrence for the tops to fly off cabs and reveal armed desperadoes no one will blame Barraclough for the views he expressed upon the subjects.

"Keep sweet," said the loafer in a very agreeable tone of voice when Barraclough had exhausted his first inspiration. "And if you'll keep your hands in your lap I'll come and sit beside you."

Never for an instant while this agile individual transferred himself from the roof of the cab to the interior did the caressing muzzle of the pistol waver from its mark.

"Sorry to be a nuisance," he observed as he settled himself beside Barraclough, "but I'm afraid you'll have to tell this joker to turn back. Golders Green Tube Station will do nicely."

And while Barraclough was leaning forward to comply with the instructions he very neatly removed a Harrington and Richardson from his unhappy victim's pocket.

"Just to be on the safe side," he remarked as he transferred it to his own. "You'll be getting a bit peevish maybe and might lose your sense of proportion after such a busy day."

"Tell me this," said Barraclough. "How many of you are there in this?"

"My dear chap, I don't know—hundreds I expect."

"Hm!" said Barraclough. "Well, I'm going home to bed."

"Sensible fellow and I'll see you get there safely."

They alighted at Golders Green Station where the driver was equally amazed by his open cab and the extra passenger.

"No, no, this is on me," said the loafer and handed out a couple of notes.

In the station he nodded to several men in a friendly fashion and repeated the performance to some others as they sat side by side in the tube carriage. He rather flattered himself on the inspiration that suggested this performance, for, as a fact, everyone of them was a stranger.

"Thought it safer to come home this way," he said to establish the point more firmly. "I felt a bit lonely with you in that cab."

They parted at the doors of Crest Chambers, W., where Barraclough had a flat.

"By the way, any message for Mr. Van Diest?"

"You can tell him to go to the devil," said Anthony Barraclough.

"Right, I will. I say, if you feel a bit neglected during the night don't worry, there are plenty of us knocking about in the street below and we shan't desert you."

Barraclough smiled grimly.

"You seem a genial sort of ass," he said. "Care for a drink?"

"No, thanks. I must toddle along and make my report." He hesitated.

"But I would like to know what all this is about."

"So would a good many other people," said Barraclough and pressed the third floor button of the electric lift.