How Leyland Spent the Evening
Bredon was not allowed to escape so easily. Leyland insisted that
their plans must be settled at once, before supper time. “You see,” he
said, “we’ve got to make rings round Brinkman, and he’s got to fancy
that he is not under observation. That’s going to be a difficult job.
But it’s made easy for us, rather, by the fact that Friday night is
cinema night in Chilthorpe.”
“A cinema at Chilthorpe!” protested Mr. Pulteney. “Good God!”
“Yes, there’s a sort of barn out behind the rectory, and one of these
travelling shows comes round once a week or once a fortnight. It’s
extraordinary how civilization has developed, isn’t it? My idea was
this: our friend the barmaid is to come in at supper, and ask us if we
shall be wanting anything for the night, and whether she can go out.
The Boots, she will say quite truthfully, is going to the cinema, and
she wants to do the same. Mrs. Davis will be kept busy at the bar.
Therefore there will be nobody to attend to the bell if we ring—she
will ask us whether we mind that.”
“Machiavellian!” said Mr. Pulteney.
“Then somebody—you, Mrs. Bredon, for choice—will suggest _our_ making
up a party for the cinema. Your husband will refuse, because he wants
to stay at home playing patience.”
“Come, I like this scheme,” said Bredon. “It seems to me to be all on
the right lines. I only hope that you will allow me to be as good as
my word.”
“That’s all right; I’m coming to that. The rest of us will consent to
accompany Mrs. Bredon; Brinkman, presumably, will refuse. Soon after
supper—the performance is at eight—we will all leave the house in the
direction of the cinema, which is fortunately the opposite direction
from the garage.”
“And have I got to sit through an evening performance in the barn?”
asked Angela.
“Why, no; I want you and Mr. Eames to make your way back to the inn,
by turning off along the lane which leads to the old mill; then you
can come in quietly by the privet-hedge at the back. Then I want you,
Mr. Eames, to wait about in the passage which leads to the bar,
dodging down the cellar stairs if Brinkman comes to the bar to have a
fortifier on his way. I hope your reputation will not suffer from
these movements. You will keep your eye on the front of the house, in
case Brinkman goes out that way.”
“He’s a fool if he does,” said Bredon. “In the first place, it’s a
shorter way to the garage to take the path that goes out at the back.
And in the second place, if he takes that path he will be unnoticed,
whereas if he comes out by the front door he will be under the eyes of
the bar parlour.”
“I know, and I am going to discourage him still further from going out
at the front by leaving you to keep a lookout. Your window faces the
front, doesn’t it? Very well, then, you will sit in your room playing
patience, but right in the window-seat, please, and with the blind
up.”
“But I say, if he goes out by the front way, have I got to track him?
Because”——
“No, you haven’t. Mr. Eames is to do that. You sit still where you are
and go on playing patience. Mr. Eames, if Brinkman goes out by the
front door, you will see him; you will wait till he is round the
corner, and then follow him at a distance. That, of course, is only to
make sure what he does on the way to the garage; you are not to
overtake him or interfere with him.”
“I see.”
“And what am I to do?” asked Angela.
“Well, I was wondering if, on returning from our false start, you
would mind going up unnoticed to your husband’s room? The back stairs
are very handy for the purpose. You could sit there reading, or
anything, and then if Brinkman does leave by the front, your husband,
while still sitting at the window and pretending not to notice, could
pass the word to you. You would then go downstairs and ring up the
garage, so that we shall be ready for Brinkman when he comes.”
“That will be a thoroughly typical scene. And are you taking poor Mr.
Pulteney to the post of honour and of danger?”
“If Mr. Pulteney does not object. He knows his way about the garage.”
“I shall be delighted to go where glory waits. If I fall, I hope that
you will put up a plain but tasteful monument over me, indicating that
I died doing somebody else’s duty.”
“And what about your two men?” asked Bredon.
“One of them will be told off to watch Simmonds. As I told you, I
can’t afford to leave Simmonds out of account. The other will wait out
at the back, in a place I have selected; if (or rather when) Brinkman
comes out at the back door to make his way to the garage, my man will
follow him at a distance, and will take his post at the garage door,
in case there’s any rough work there. That, I think, accounts for the
whole party.”
“How long does our vigil last?” asked Eames.
“Not, I imagine beyond nine o’clock. That is the hour at which the
garage shuts; and, although there is a bell by which the proprietor
can be fetched out if necessary, I hardly think that Brinkman would
take the risk. The dusk is closing early this evening, with all these
clouds about; and if, as I strongly suspect, there is a thunder-storm,
it will be a capital night for his purpose. It’s a nuisance for us,
because I haven’t dared to leave any of my watching-parties out of
doors for fear of a deluge.”
If tea had been an embarrassing meal, supper was a positive nightmare.
But when the barmaid, carefully coached by Angela, asked for leave to
go out to the pictures, a perfect piece of acting began. Angela’s
suggestion to her husband was beautifully done, so was his languid
reply; Mr. Pulteney excelled himself in the eagerness with which he
offered to be her cavalier; Leyland’s shew of reluctance over the
programme, and Eames’s humorous resignation to his fate, completed the
picture. Brinkman, after one nerve-racking pause, said he thought on
the whole he would rather be excused. He found the cinema tiring to
the eyes. “Good,” said Bredon; “then you and I will keep the
home-fires burning. It’s true I shall be sitting upstairs, because
I’ve got my patience all laid out up there, and I haven’t the heart to
desert it. But if you’re frightened of thunder, Mr. Brinkman, you can
always come up and have a crack with me.”
The alleged cinema party left at five minutes to eight. By that time
Bredon was already immersed in his mysteries upstairs; and it was
Brinkman, smilingly apologetic, who saw them off at the front door.
“Don’t sit up for us if we’re late, Mr. Brinkman,” said Angela, with
the woman’s instinct of overdoing an acted part; “we’ll throw
brickbats in at my husband’s window.” The inn door, with its
ridiculous panes of blue and yellow, shut behind them, and they heard
the unsuspecting footsteps of their victim climbing the stairs. As
they passed down the street, a few drops of rain were falling, uneasy
presages of the storm. Angela quickened her pace; she had not carried
realism to the extent of arming herself with an umbrella. It was, in
truth, but a short distance she and Eames had to travel; they were
only just out of sight round a bend of the street when they doubled
back upon the lane by which they were to return to the inn. At the
entrance of it they met Emmeline, with the Boots in attendance; it was
difficult not to believe that, upon arrival at the cinema, he would be
replaced by a more favoured escort. Leyland and Pulteney just stood
long enough at the turning to make sure that all had gone well, and
then continued their journey to the garage.
Here all was clearly in readiness; the proprietor was waiting for them
at the door to receive his orders.
“Look here,” said Leyland, “this gentleman and I are going to watch
for a bit in here. Where’s the telephone? Ah, that’s all right; very
well, we’ll get behind this lorry. If anybody comes into the garage
and wants you, he can ring that bell, can’t he? And if anybody rings
up on the telephone, we’ll take the message; and if it’s for you, not
for us, we’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I suppose you and your mate can
keep in the background?”
“That’s all right, sir, there won’t be any difficulty about that.
About how long might you be requiring the use of the garage for, sir?”
“Till nine o’clock—that’s your closing time, isn’t it? Any
objections?”
“There ain’t no difficulty, sir, except that I’ve got to take my car
out: I’ve got to meet a gentleman who’s coming down on the 8.40 train.
But if I take it straight out, and don’t waste any time over it,
that’ll be all right, won’t it? She’s all ready for starting.”
“Very well. Twenty minutes to nine—or I suppose you’ll want it about
twenty-five to. Well, you may see us when you come back, or you may
not. There’s nothing else, then.”
As the proprietor withdrew behind the door which led into the workshop
at the back, Leyland and Pulteney took up their stand behind a
hay-waggon which afforded them generous concealment. Even as they did
so, a sudden wink of lightning illuminated the outlines of the garage
and the road outside; it was followed by a distant sound of thunder.
The wind had got up by now, and was moaning uneasily among the rafters
of the building, which was no better than an open barn.
“Our performance could hardly have been better staged,” murmured the
old gentleman. “I only regret the absence of a revolver. Not that I
should have any idea how to use a lethal weapon, but it would give me
more sense of derring do. It is singularly unfortunate that, even if I
narrate the events of this evening to my pupils next term, they will
not believe me. They suspect any information which comes from such a
source. To you, I suppose, this is an everyday affair?”
“Don’t you believe it, Mr. Pulteney. Most of a detective’s life is
spent sitting in an office filling up forms, like any bank clerk. I’ve
got a revolver with me myself, but I’m not expecting any shooting.
Brinkman doesn’t strike me as being that kind of customer.”
“Is it intended that I should precipitate myself upon the miscreant
and overpower him, or where exactly do my services come in?”
Leyland was rather at a loss to answer. The truth was, he did not
quite trust Mr. Pulteney, and he thought it best for that reason to
keep him by his side. “Well,” he said, “two heads are better than one
if it comes to a sudden alteration of plans. But there isn’t going to
be any difficulty about catching our friend. If he comes out by the
back, he’ll have my man shadowing him. If he should come out by the
front, he will have Mr. Eames shadowing him. So he will be caught
between two fires.”
“But it might be difficult for Mr. Eames to catch him if he were
already in the motor-car and driving it.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Pulteney. I’ve fixed that car so that
nobody’s going to get her to move unless I want him to. It’s the devil
of a night, this. I hope Brinkman won’t funk it.”
They seemed, indeed, to be in the very centre of a thunder-storm,
though it was nowhere quite close at hand. Every few seconds, from
some unexpected quarter, the whole sky seemed to wink twice in rapid
succession, and with the wink the roofs of Chilthorpe would suddenly
stand out silhouetted, and a pale glare fell on the white road
outside. Rain lashed upon the roof above them, and for a few minutes
every gutter spouted and every seam in the tiles let in a pattering
flood; then, without a word of warning, the rain would die down once
more. Occasionally the lightning would manifest itself closer, great
jagged streaks across the sky that looked as if they were burying
themselves in the hill summits above the town. When the elements were
at rest for a moment, there was an uncanny stillness on every side;
not a dog barked, not a footstep clattered down the deserted street.
Attuned as their nerves were to the thunder, they both started as if
in panic when the telephone bell rang. Leyland was at the instrument
in a moment, and heard Angela’s cool voice asking for him at the other
end.
“Is that you, Mr. Leyland? Brinkman has just left the hotel by the
front door. . . . Yes, the _front_ door. I didn’t see him myself, of
course, but my husband said he came out quite coolly, just looking up
at our window as if to see whether he was watched. Then I came
straight to the telephone. I just looked in at the bar passage, and
found that Mr. Eames was not there, so I suppose he has followed.
Shall I give any message to the man at the back? Oh, all right. . . .
Yes, he was carrying a despatch-box, which looks as if he would round
up with you before long. . . . All right, we’ll expect you when we see
you.”
“That sounds all right,” said Leyland to his companion. “We’d best
take cover. Though why on earth the man came out by the front
door—Gad, he must be a cool customer! To walk out with his bag from
the front door, and wander in here asking for his car! Keep well
behind the lorry, Mr. Pulteney. . . . Hullo, what’s that?”
The door of the workshop opened, and the proprietor appeared, drawing
on a pair of motoring-gloves. “Sorry, sir, it’s twenty-five to; got to
go and pick up my gent. Bad night for a drive, with the rain on your
wind-screen, and this lightning blinding you every other second.”
“Hurry up, man, get clear,” said Leyland impatiently. “He’ll be here
in a moment. As you come back, you might stop at the _Load of
Mischief_, because we may want a car.”
There was a drumming and a grinding, and the taxi bounded out on to
the roadway. Leyland and Pulteney drew back behind the lorry, and
waited for the sound of a footfall. They heard the hoot of the taxi as
it passed the turning at the bridge; they heard the scrape as it
changed gears a little late on the hill road; then the noise died
down, and there was silence. Two flashes of lightning, with the
thunder following quick on them; then silence again. Five minutes
passed, ten minutes, and still they sat on in the half-darkness.
Leyland’s mind was in a whirl of agitation. Granted that Brinkman had
taken some circuitous route, to avoid observation, was it likely that
he should take so long as this? He had had time to carry his luggage
all round the township by now. . . . Suddenly, from up the street,
came a sound of running footsteps. Leyland gripped his revolver and
waited with drawn breath.