Complete Works of Nevil Shute Page 4

  She looked me up and down. “You’re much broader across the shoulders than he is,” she said, “but the height is about right. But what’s it all for? Where’s he going to go?”

  “God knows,” I muttered.

  “How do you think he got here from Dartmoor?”

  I started. “He was in Dartmoor? He must have had luck to get all this distance.” And then I remembered that I had seen a headline in the morning paper over my breakfast at Manchester — a meagre and a sour breakfast it had been that morning — that a prisoner had escaped and was still at large. I remembered that I had commented on it to the photographer, and had wished him luck. I almost wished now that I hadn’t.

  “I saw it in the paper this morning,” I said. “We shall have to be careful.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ll have the window open tonight as soon as it’s safe. Mr Stenning — will you come too? I don’t know anything about these things. Would it be frightfully inconvenient for you?”

  I laughed. “Not a bit,” I said. “I should have been a stiff little corpse by now but for him — and nobody any the wiser.”

  “It’s awfully good of you,” she said. “He’ll have to get out of the country, won’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He said he only wanted to be free for ten days. But I’ll come up this evening and we can have a talk with him and find out what it is that he wants us to do. I’ll be skulking round outside till I see him get in at the window, and then I’ll come along. That way, you’ll know I’m not playing any funny business on you. Right you are, Miss Stevenson — at about eleven o’clock.”

  “It’s awfully good of you,” she repeated mechanically. She hesitated for a moment. “I don’t want to tell my father or mother if we can help it,” she said. “We mustn’t bring them into this unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  I went back to the pub. The men were in the commercial room, busy over the meal that I had ordered for them. They didn’t wait long; they were anxious to get back with the machine to the aerodrome, and so to bed. They grumbled a good deal over the journey, but it appeared that Morris was eager to get the machine back into the works and start on the repair. I wished him joy of it.

  I started with them on the lorry. The landlord showed some concern at my departure; I think he was counting on me to stay the night and fight my battles over again in the bar. However, we all crowded on to the lorry in the darkness and pushed off, not without a little song and dance from the men.

  Half a mile from the village I stopped the lorry and got down, and the lorry drove on towards London without me. I never heard what the men thought about it, but I doubt if this proceeding did my reputation any harm. That was hardly possible.

  It was then about half past ten, and quite dark, I fetched a compass round the outskirts of the village through the fields, and presently found myself on the road for Six Firs.

  It was beginning to feel more frightfully rocky. During the early part of the evening I had been almost myself; I think the whisky I was drinking then had something to do with it. Now the cut in my forehead had stiffened up and was aching and throbbing till I could hardly bear it; it was the only thing that prevented me from sitting down under a hedge and going to sleep. I was most fearfully done. I walked up to the house and got there at about ten minutes to eleven; a hundred yards up the lane from the gate I found a gap in the hedge. I got through this into the field and, skirting along the hedge, reached a position where I could command a view of the whole front of the house.

  I sat down on a hummock in the darkness and began drowsily to consider what would be the best thing to be done for Compton. All the little noises of a country night in June conspired to take my mind from the problem and to increase my drowsiness. Somewhere there was an owl hooting irregularly; the air was full of little rustlings and squeaks. I sat there till my head dropped forward and I awoke with a start; then I got up and began to walk up and down the field. The lights were still on in the house. Then as I looked again one of the lights in the downstairs rooms went out, and then all the others. A light appeared in an upstairs room; I interpreted that to mean that the old couple were going to bed.

  I began to wonder what I should do if I were in Compton’s place and had to cut the country without undue ostentation. I knew the answer to that at once. I would do it on a small yacht. For many years it has been my hobby to knock about the Channel whenever I had the chance; I owned a six-tonner of my own one season in partnership with another man, but for the most part my experience has been gained on charters.

  I knew the Channel pretty well. I was convinced that one could slip quietly in and out of England in that way without anybody being any the wiser. Now that the coastguard has been practically abolished there is very little restraint or comment on the movements of small yachts. One goes over to France and cruises the French coast for a time; on one’s return to England one may invite the local Customs officer on board by flying an ensign at the truck. Or one may simply join the throng of yachts cruising up and down the coast; it is nobody’s business to discover in what country the anchor last bit the mud.

  Yes, I decided, that is what I would do. It would need a little organization; one would have to have a suitable boat ready and, if possible, get someone to provision her. Then it struck me that there is little advantage to be gained in these days by escaping from one country to another unless it be to one where there is no extradition. Still, it would be a step in the right direction to get as far as France. And rather than begin on a ten-year sentence I would push off for South America in a decent ten-tonner, though I won’t pretend that my seamanship is in the same street as that of Captain Joshua Slocum.

  I moved up closer to the garden hedge and began to study the house intently. There were no lights showing now. I remember that I was very cold. I thought I could see that one of the windows of the morning-room was open; for what seemed an interminable time I stood leaning on the hedge, listening to the noises of the night, watching the house.

  Presently a light flashed on in one of the upper windows, and almost at the same moment I saw Compton. He was standing on the lawn in the shadow of a clump of laurels; I saw him move silently across the grass and vanish into the shadow by the window.

  I sighed with relief. The main part of my job was over; from now onwards I should be acting in a purely advisory capacity. I think I really believed that at the moment. As I have said, I was most frightfully tired.

  I waited for a few minutes, then got through the hedge and crossed the lawn to the house. There was somebody standing at the unlighted window; as I drew near I saw it was Joan Stevenson.

  “Mr Stenning,” she whispered.

  I got into the house through the window. It was then about twenty minutes past eleven.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AS SOON AS I got into the morning-room I made straight for the anthracite stove; I was nearly perished with cold from hanging about outside, though it was June. For some reason connected with the old man’s health a stove was kept burning in this room all through the summer; they had not turned on a light but had made up the stove to such an extent that it threw a warm glow all over the room. Compton was sitting on a chair in front of the stove clad only in a shirt, and pulling on a pair of very large grey flannel trousers. Miss Stevenson was moving quietly about the room in the semi-darkness collecting the materials for a meal. I stood warming myself by the fire, and for a time none of us spoke a word.

  Compton finished his dressing, stood up, and turned to me. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, “but I never asked you your name....”

  “Stenning,” I said. “Philip Stenning.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I don’t think I need try and tell you how grateful I am to you for — for this?” He glanced at the table and the room.

  “I don’t think you need,” I said, and laughed. “What comes next?”

  He did not seem to have heard my question. He stood for a long time staring down at his feet, warmly
lit up in the glow from the stove.

  “What comes next?” he said at last. “If I could tell you that I don’t suppose I should be — like this. Plato wanted to know that, didn’t he? and Sophocles — certainly Sophocles. But I’m so rusty on all that stuff now.”

  “Come and have some supper,” said the girl from behind the table. “You must be frightfully hungry.”

  He roused himself. “I’m not very hungry. But thanks, Joan. What’s that you’ve got there — ham? I’d like a bit of ham. And then I must cut off again.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “Where are you going to?”

  He shook his head. “God only knows,” he muttered. “I must lie low for a bit.”

  I saw the girl pause in the dim light behind the table, and stare at him. “You must get out of the country somehow, Denis,” she said. “You must get to France.”

  He looked at me vaguely. “I suppose that’s the thing to do,” he said at last. “But I’ve got to stay in England for the present.”

  She looked at him in that uncomfortable, direct way that she had. “What do you mean — you’ve got to?”

  He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. “I don’t know if you imagine that I cut out of prison for fun,” he said heavily. “Anyway — I didn’t.” He relapsed into silence again, and sat for a time brooding with his eyes on the table.

  The girl looked at me helplessly.

  I cleared my throat. “I don’t want to butt in on any private business,” I said. “But isn’t this going a bit slowly? I don’t want you to tell me anything that you’d rather not talk about before a stranger. But I owe you a good bit for what you did this afternoon, and I’m ready to help in any way I can. I’ve come here prepared to do so.”

  I hope that I may be forgiven for that lie. I thought for a minute, and then continued: “I didn’t quite realize from what you said this afternoon that you really mean to stay in the country. I’ve been thinking about getting you out. I’ll even go so far as to say that I’m pretty sure I can get you to France within the week. I mean that. But if there’s any other way in which I can help I hope you’ll let me know.”

  “I don’t want to get you into trouble,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter a damn about me,” I said. “But it seems to me that by staying in England you run a great danger of being caught again — in fact, it’s pretty long odds against you. But — from now onwards you’ve got to think about Miss Stevenson here. If they get you they’ll pretty certainly be able to trace out everyone who’s been in contact with you, and that may mean trouble. I understand that you got out of prison for some reason — and by the way, it would be interesting to learn how you did it. The point I want to make is that if you stay in England it’s up to you to avoid being caught, and it seems to me that’s a far tougher proposition than getting you out of the country.”

  “I see what you mean,” he said slowly. “Yes, I see that.”

  He turned from me to the table and began to eat. He had had no food for thirty-six hours, he said; at the same time, he had very little appetite and ate a surprisingly small meal. I mixed myself a stiff whisky and sat down by the fire, wondering what on earth was going to happen to this chap. Now that I had time to study him more closely, I liked the look of him. He was much my own build with very much the same hair and complexion, though his hair was short while mine was long and brushed back over my head.

  The girl came and sat down opposite me, but we said very little till Compton had finished his meal. I sat drowsing in front of the fire, whisky in hand, and tried to think what was the best line to take if he insisted on staying in England. I wanted to help him. It wasn’t only that he had saved my life; I knew as I sat there in the warm darkness that I should have helped him anyway. I looked round the room in the red light of the stove; it was a comfortable, decently furnished place. I could imagine from the room something of the nature of the owner of the house, the girl’s father. He was a collector of mezzotints; they stared down from all the walls, some beautiful, more grotesque, all very old. He liked old blue china, did the owner of the house; he liked books more for their old calf and vellum bindings than to read. There were soldiers among his ancestors, for the walls were scattered here and there with swords and cases of medals, and over my head there was a framed scroll of honour.

  I glanced again at the man at the table, and realized suddenly why it was that I should have helped him in any case. It was because he was so like myself; he was just such a man as I might have been if things had gone a little differently. I might have gone to Oxford too. My father was a naval officer, my mother was a lady of the chorus in a Portsmouth music-hall. It didn’t last long. Soon after I was born there was trouble. I never learned what happened to my mother, but whatever it was my father died of it — of that and of malaria on the China Station. I was brought up all anyhow. That’s what I mean when I say that I would have helped him in any case. It might have been me; it would have been me if I had been the son of Mary instead of the son of Martha. I was Martha all over; I laughed quietly to myself as I thought of the only poet I had ever read:

  It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock,

  It is their care that the gear engages, it is their care that the switches lock.

  Yes, I was certainly Martha. I had thought that I was coming into this thing in a purely advisory capacity. I was wrong.

  I finished my whisky in one gulp and sat up briskly, most frightfully bucked with life. I knew what we were going to do.

  The girl noticed the movement, and asked me what was the matter.

  “Nothing,” I said. “But I believe we can work this.”

  Compton finished his meal and got up from the table. He turned to the girl. “I’m sorry to have come here like this, Joan,” he said. “It’s a pretty rotten thing to have done, but I didn’t dare to go anywhere where they’d look for me. I don’t know if you believe I had that money or not. That isn’t the point, though. I’m sorry to have come here like this.”

  “I don’t believe you took a penny of it,” she said. “I never did.”

  He smiled queerly. “Well,” he said, “I did. I took five pounds to tide me over the week-end because I’d forgotten to cash a cheque. I left the account open — I had to, you see, or I wouldn’t have been able to put it back. I was away till the Thursday over that motor accident — as you know. But I never knew anything about the other three thousand; that went into the account on Monday and out again on Tuesday. I couldn’t have laid myself more open to it. At the same time, he was a clever fellow.”

  I gathered that he had been secretary to some sort of charitable association. Charity, it was evident, had not begun at home.

  I heaved myself up out of my chair, crossed to the table, and took another whisky. “We’ve not got too much time,” I said. “Now look here. Is it quite definite that you’ve got to stay in England?”

  He nodded. “I can’t leave England for the present,” he said. “I’ve got one or two things that I must see to before I go.”

  His manner of putting it made me smile; he might have been speaking of a business appointment. I think it must have been then that I began to realize that he really cared very little what happened to him. I think it was this very casualness that probably carried him through.

  “All right,” I said. “Now there’s just one thing we have to think about, and that’s this. If you get caught it means trouble for all of us. You’ve simply not got to get caught. How long will it be before you can leave the country?”

  He thought for a minute. “This is June 6th,” he said. “The 15th.... I could leave England on the 18th. That’s in twelve days’ time, on Monday week.”

  “Do you think they’ve tracked you to this part of the country?” I said.

  He shook his head. “It’s very difficult to say,” he said. “But I had the most extraordinary luck. I came here by road. I wasn’t out an hour before I got into the back of a motor-
lorry that was coming from the prison; I stayed there for about two hours, till it was dark. I don’t think they saw me there. Then we stopped outside a pub; I waited till the coast was clear and got into a field. The pub was on the London road, I think, because presently a motor furniture van stopped for a drink and I heard them talking about London. They were driving all night. I got on top of that and stayed there till daylight; we weren’t far away from here then, on the Henley road. I followed along across country till I got to earth in those woods this morning at about six o’clock. I don’t think anyone saw me.”

  I thought of the Stokenchurch constable and realized that if the country had been up in arms over an escaped convict in the neighbourhood I must surely have heard of it.

  I drained my tumbler and slammed it down on to the mantelpiece with a sharp rap.

  “Now look here,” I said curtly. “You’ve not got a dog’s chance, acting on your own. If you cut off now they’ll have you back in prison again within two days. There’s just one thing we can do for you that will give you a sporting chance. We’ve got to get the attention of the police off you and on to something else. We’ve got to lay a few red herrings. I think I’d better cut off tonight and start laying them.”

  I don’t know to this day what made me say that. It may have been a sudden flash from the whisky; I know that the moment I had said it I wished I hadn’t. I wasn’t fit; I was still feeling rotten from the crash and I was most frightfully tired. But even so I was glad at the way the girl took me up.

  She looked me straight in the face in that embarrassing way of hers. “What do you mean?” she said.

  I laughed, not very merrily. “Why, safety first. If he gets caught it’s all up with us — all the lot of us. We’re all in the same boat now. I don’t know if it would mean quod, but there’d be the hell of a scandal. Now I’m pretty much the same build as Compton. Look at me. Think if I had my hair cut and walked with a limp and wore clothes that didn’t fit me ... I don’t say that anyone who had the photograph of Compton in his hand would mistake us for a minute. But for the others ... I could lay a pretty hot scent.”